


The Kings Who Cared

by SomeRandomWeirdGuy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, King Stannis, R Plus L Equals J, Stannis the Mannis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2019-11-13 03:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 112,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18023759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeRandomWeirdGuy/pseuds/SomeRandomWeirdGuy
Summary: A chance meeting in Braavos leads to Young Griff setting his sights on the opposite end of Westeros. When two would-be kings answer the Watch's call, each with his own claim and prophecy, the Seven Kingdoms face a very different future.(The mystery of Young Griff is half the fun)(Eventual Aegon VI/Stannis team-up)





	1. A Duck and a Crow

**Author's Note:**

> If you read ADWD and found yourself enjoying Young Griff and his helpful crew of RPG party members, enjoy the mystery of his identity, and also are a huge Stannis fan, then hopefully this story will be for you. Any questions/comments/etc are highly appreciated!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duck delivers a message

_Chapter I: A Duck and a Crow_

__

Duck had never wanted to be called Duck. Duck had never wanted many things for that matter, and he felt that he had truly wanted very few things as well. But the fact remained that he had not wanted the moniker which he had accidentally bestowed upon himself. Any knight worth their blade had a second name he’d told himself, and “Duckfield” had sounded as good as anything else might be. If he’d known then that he would grow so used to being called “Duck” that he would think of himself as Duck, then mayhaps he’d have thought a bit more strenuously on his second name.  
  
Sometimes, Duck imagined that it had been wolves on that field rather than ducks. Wolffield didn’t roll of the tongue quite so well, but he’d be willing to take that in exchange for being called “Wolf” instead.  
  
Still, Duck fancied himself a skilled hand at smithing, and a more than passing fair swordsman. Clearly, he had not been the only one, otherwise he would never have been knighted in the first place. If he’d never been knighted, well, his life would have been a mite less interesting.  
  
The cost for his interesting prospects, then, was the knowledge that he was the brawn of their endeavor. If something needed to be moved, Duck was the man tasked with it. If someone needed to be moved (six feet under, mostlike), then Duck was the man for that as well. When a missive needed to be passed along to the Spider through one of his little birds (why birds? If the man was a spider, shouldn’t it be a fly or somesuch?), then that meant Duck was the man for the task.  
  
After all, everyone else was particularly vital in their own way. Griff was a more than capable swordsman, and could fulfill his role in the meantime. That wounded Duck’s pride somewhat, but he hadn’t been born with much in the first place. It was only expected for a commonborn man to act as such, at the least.  
  
Braavos, in particular, was a journey he was always willing to make. Some pisspot of a village on the arse-end of the Rhoyne was one thing, but Braavos? Braavos was a destination he looked forward to. No matter how many times Duck sailed under the great Titan and heard its roar, he always found himself giddy. Like he was the near child he’d been when he left Westeros for the “decadent” lands to the east.  
  
Surely, this would be the time that his luck won out. He’d catch the eye of one of the Courtesans and live like a magister for a few days before heading back to his obligations. Without his squire, Duck was released from having to live as a shining knight. Griff didn’t want any bad habits bleeding over, after all. Well, there probably wouldn’t be any courtesans, but he could still find a nice, affordable woman. And if he didn’t do that, then he could surely find other ways to get his blood running.  
  
Namely, wander around after dark with his sword in his hand and wait for a hotblooded young bravo to give him a good time.  
  
Finding the “little bird” had been a simple enough affair. Few paid any attention to Westerosi traveler grabbing at the skirts of a serving maid. That she had a prominent scar on her face was of little consequence to a man in need of feminine company. So of course, fewer still noticed when he slipped the envelope down her sleeve. She gave him a playful swat, but the knowing smirk she wore told him all he need know. Duck left an extra coin after he downed his wine and returned to the streets.  
  
Duck spent his day wandering the streets, piecing together what he could of the Secret City’s own Bastard Valyrian. He could survive in Braavos if he was forced to, but he’d rather not. What little he’d learned in the Golden Company wasn’t quite enough for him to live without care. Still, he heard enough to keep himself entertained. The Sealord had had a bout of illness, but was recovering. Khal Drogo was gathering the largest khalasar the world had ever seen. King Robert was dead, killed by a boar (or a resurrected Rhaegar Targaryen, if some versions of the tale were to be believed).  
  
Duck was still somewhat stunned that King Robert (Duck could never refer to him as simply “The Usurper” like Griff, after all, he was the King Duck had known for most of his life) was truly dead. Sure, the man had lived life few lived for long, but they had not thought themselves lucky enough to count on his early demise. Everything that had happened since was yet more good fortune.  
  
As he walked, Duck noticed something of a trend. At first he heard the occasional mention of the Ragman’s Harbor. This didn’t seem beyond the ordinary to Duck, as the Ragman’s Harbor was the only harbor in Braavos that was open to foreigners. Foreign news or peoples always carried interest to some. Duck still remembered the first time he ever saw an Ibbenese man, so he understood. But as the mentions of the Ragman’s Harbor became more common, so too did the whispers of a “hand” and something or someone in black.  
  
Duck hadn’t spent several years fighting (and smithing) in the Golden Company because he wanted to live an ordinary life. If he had wanted that, then he never would have left Bitterbridge in the first place. So when the possibility of something of interest arose, he felt a solemn duty to seek it out. In truth, he had a duty to inform Griff of anything amiss, so he felt no qualms about playing at rumormonging.  
  
Arriving in the Ragman’s Harbor somewhat later than intended (having stopped for a time to watch the ending of a street mummers’ show, as the heroine was particularly buxom), Duck swiftly saw that it was more populated than was its usual. It was easy enough for a man with as sharp an eye and ear as he to figure the origin of the chatter, so Duck made his way to the northern end of the Harbor where he knew the particular tavern sat. Sure enough, while Pynto’s smelled of piss, that was not out of the ordinary. The fact that the piss seemed more human than cat was of interest, as was the high amount of foot traffic.  
  
Being a tall man with a sword at his hip was of great benefit when it came to shouldering his way through the crowd of men and women of every stripe, color, and origin. It was slightly less useful when it came to maneuvering through the truly countless cats that called Pynto’s their home. After sidestepping a particularly unfriendly Tom, Duck caught sight of a thin man clad all in black at the center of the crowd. The man was aged. He had to have seen more than forty namedays, and probably even fifty if the streaks of grey through his black hair were to believed. He had a severe look to him, and he kept one hand on the hilt of his blade even as he held the top of a wrought iron cage with the other, his dark eyes scanning the crowd.  
  
From his vantage point, Duck couldn’t see what exactly the cage contained, so he squeezed past a broad Summer Islander and a green haired man and woman that could only have been Tyroshi. The man in front of him now was at least short enough that Duck could see over his balding head. Finally, he could see the source of all the commotion.  
  
Duck’s Braavosi had not failed him, it turned out. For there was indeed a “hand” as he thought he’d heard some mention. It was a particularly rotted hand, and it was black as pitch. He didn’t see what was so worthy of gossip in this hand. He’d seen plenty of cut off hands in his life, and he’d never bothered putting them in a cage and showing them off to others.  
  
Then the hand jerked, scraping its way to the other end of the cage. Several women screamed, and time seemed to slow. A thousand thoughts whirled in his head as he looked from the man in black to the hand and then back again, his breathing labored.  
  
Fuck the courtesans, actually. And the bravos too.  
  
Ser Rolly Duckfield had some news to deliver.


	2. King with a Cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young Griff has a bad dream

_Chapter II: King with a Cause_

Everywhere he looked, he saw white. White covered the ground like a dense blanket. Above him, the sky was white as well, and white specks fell from it like a slow rain. He took in a deep breath, the cold air biting at his lungs.

 _This is snow_.

He hadn’t seen snow in a very long time. He had been a boy then, frolicking while he wished that his father would come home. The woman he’d thought to be his mother played with him in the snow then, and he’d loved her for it.

But this cold was more than that. It was colder than it had been then. Colder then he could ever remember being in his seventeen years. And yet, despite that cold, he found that he wasn’t truly cold. There was a warmth within him, something vital that kept his blood flowing. The air stung, but it wouldn’t kill. It couldn’t kill him.

He grasped at a falling snowflake. It melted quickly in his palm, and when he looked back up, he saw a new color. Blue. He reached out and touched the blue, and found it to be cold as well, but this didn’t melt under his touch as the snowflake did. He looked behind himself, but still saw the field of white, and looking to his right and left he saw that the great blue extended further than he could see. Finally, something fell into place within himself, and he realized it was a wall.

 _Not just a wall, but_ the _Wall._

It hadn’t been there before, had it? Wouldn’t he have noticed it? It spoke somewhat poorly of his martial prowess for a structure as large as the Wall to sneak up on him. It must have been there, surely. He looked more closely at it. It was a monstrosity, this wall. Hulking, huge, austere, and even beautiful in a strange sort of way. He knew that the Wall was not solely crafted from ice, that there was some measure of earth and wood throughout the structure, but he couldn’t see it as anything but a great beast of ice. It was absolutely unlike anything he’d ever seen.

_I wonder how it must look from above?_

And then he was in the air, soaring far above the wall like Good Queen Alysanne had once done so long ago. Somehow he’d forgotten that he could fly. He couldn’t remember ever doing it himself, but it felt natural enough he supposed. He _was_ a dragon after all.

_A dragon at the wall. Fancy that._

Looking down, he saw that the Wall stretched far into the distance both ways, and that the land was truly featureless. Snow was all he could see on both sides of the Wall. No trees, no dwellings, no men. Just snow on the ground and snow in the air. And the Wall, everywhere and nowhere. This high, the wind whipped at his face fiercely, but he could hardly feel it through his scales. His arms (wings?) inexplicably began to tire, and he found himself perching on the Wall to ease his body from the exertion of flight.

It had been his first flight after all, he supposed it was only expected that he’d find himself tired afterwards.

He inspected his right wing. He looked closely at the bones throughout it, so like a hand that it disquieted him some.  His scales glinted despite the relatively low light offered by the cloudy skies. He was a dark color, but he couldn’t quite tell what. Red, perhaps? Or maybe black? It was so very hard to tell in this damnable light.

And then he was a man again, and he was staring at his very real fingers. His scales were replaced by the tanned skin he was used to (so unlike that of the man he’d always called father). It made some sense. He’d spent his whole life as a man. Could calling a man a dragon make him one?

He shrugged his shoulders and sat on the edge of the wall. It was somewhat odd that there wasn’t a parapet. It would be all too simple for one to fall off and meet their end hundreds of feet below. Very impractical wall building. Brandon the Builder should be ashamed. Without warning, ancient Northern kings were the last thing on his mind.

He felt a pull, and he stopped kicking his feet lazily in the air. Something nameless, nebulous, seized at his heart, and his breath shortened. He looked out to the great abyss before the Wall. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was looking at the northern side of the Wall. He was staring out at the land that led to the end of the world. The feeling tightened. It was fear that he was feeling, and he didn’t even know why. Ragged breaths escaped him, and suddenly he was feeling the cold. His breaths came shorter, and he felt tears sting at his eyes.

There was nothing beyond the Wall. He was staring at nothing. Why was he scared? Why was thinking about it making it so much worse? He wanted to turn back south, where he hadn’t felt this pain, this fear. But he couldn’t, because something held him tightly in place.

Dragons didn’t feel cold, or fear for that matter. But men did. Men felt it all too keenly.

He wished he was a dragon again.

Then there was a great crack, and the Wall was shattering, falling. Snow fell harder, faster. He wanted to scream as he fell, careening through the air, but he couldn’t. Maybe he had already been frozen solid and he simply had not yet realized it. For what felt like an eternity, he fell. And then without fanfare, he was on solid ground, standing as if nothing had been amiss to begin with.

The Wall was gone. All he saw now was snow, truly. Snow in the air, snow on the ground. Snow falling so rapidly that he could scarce see in front of himself. The fear still held his heart in a vice. The cold seeped into his every pore, his entire being.

When pinpricks of blue light appeared all around him for as far as he could see, he realized that he needed fire.

A fire so great that no cold could defeat it.

And then he saw eyes, eyes bluer than blue, and high sharp cracks, almost like laughter rang in his ears.

He felt cold.

-

Griff awoke with a start, sweat coating him from head to foot. He clenched a shaking hand to his thin sleeping shirt, each gasping breath gradually less fitful than the last. _What in the Seven Hells?_ Griff couldn’t even remember the last time he had dreamed of something so frightening. _Why?_ Had it been his dinner the night before? The cook had prepared a splendid mixture of spicy peppers and fresh-killed hare, but while eating spicy food slightly before he turned in for the night could sometimes cause a fitful rest, this was something else entirely.

He could not blame so vivid and disorienting a dream on spicy food, as tempting as that might be.

Gradually, Griff realized that there was something of a commotion in the next room over. He heard movement and loud, muffled discussion. They were talking over each other, so it was difficult to discern one voice from another. He looked over to the bed that his fa–Jon had been sleeping in the night before and found it empty. It was still dark, and the hearth burned low, providing little light and even less warmth.

He threw the sheet off of him and shot out of bed. The cool air was simply heavenly compared to the heat he had accumulated over his (what had felt like) long night. Listening more closely, he heard what he thought was Jon, as well as a few other male voices, and the higher pitch of who had to be Lemore (for Haldon rarely sought female company, and Jon never had). Griff shook his head, his damp, shoulder-length hair whipping his face. He tucked it behind his ears and then exited the room quietly, trying to put the nightmare away from his thoughts.

The room was directly adjacent to his and Jon’s, so it was only a few long strides away, especially due to his height. He already neared Jon’s appreciable height, and he still had some ways to go according to the Halfmaester and Lemore. Crouching outside the door, Griff weighed his options. Two years ago, he might have slipped the door slightly open and simply eavesdropped. They hadn’t woken him for a reason, clearly. Another part of him begged him to go for a walk to ease his nightmare-addled brain and then return to bed, putting aside this clandestine meeting entirely.

They had hidden so much from him, for so long. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t–

 _No. I will not go down that path again_.

He shook his head to clear it again. He felt as if a dense fog rested between his temples, and he wanted it gone. Thus far, no success. Griff took a deep breath.

_If I am to them what they claim I am, then I should be privy to whatever they have to say._

Griff gave the door a single knock and then swung it open.

Septa Lemore was sitting atop the bed at the far end of the room, still wearing her shift, her dark eyes wide and her face twisted in concern. Jon had been pacing in front of the fire, one big hand behind his back and the other buried in this thick red beard. Haldon sat on a chair to the side of the room, his brow furrowed, hair loose, and hands clutching a thin parchment. And–

“Duck!” Griff exclaimed, quickly closing the door behind him.

Duck had been leaning against the far corner of the room, somewhat obscured due to Jon blocking the hearth and light with his pacing. His red hair was unkempt and his traveling clothes were decidedly worn. Still, his face split with a tired grin when he saw him.

“We hadn’t expected you to be back for some time yet,” Griff continued. “Was Braavos truly such a bore?”

But that couldn’t be the reason. Griff had been to Braavos a number of times, and it was always a feast for the senses. It was something of a disappointment to visit the lesser Free Cities after one has experienced the grandeur of the Secret City.

Duck exchanged a glance with the rest.

“Return to bed.” It was Jon who replied instead. “Ser Rolly was only discussing the latest rumors from Braavos.”

Griff bristled. Jon was _always_ trying to shield him. Once it hadn’t bothered him, but he was a man grown in truth now, and besides…

“I am your _king_ ,” Aegon said. “I-”

“Rightful king you may be,” Jon cut in, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. “But you are half a boy.”

Aegon knew he’d been smaller than his years for most of his life, his constitution never quite as strong as the adults may have liked. Lemore and Jon had been careful with him, but, “I have seen sixteen years,” he replied, after a time. “If I sat the throne, you would no longer act as regent, if you had ever in the first place.”

Jon’s pale blue eyes grew stormy, standing out all the more against the red of his hair and the pale tone of his skin (so obviously different from his own, but children are so very easy to fool).

But it was Duck who spoke next, not Jon. “I think he should know,” he said simply.

“If he should rule the Seven Kingdoms, it’s only right that he know everything we do,” Lemore agreed, the early hour clearly evident in her tone.

Jon and Aegon both turned to Haldon, who only shrugged, passing the parchment he held over to Lemore.

Jon turned toward the hearth, and, with a loud grunt, stoked the fire fiercely. The crackle of wood and flame reverberating through the too-crowded room was all Aegon heard for a time.

“Fine. Tell him, Ser Rolly,” Jon finally said, still turned away toward the fire.

Duck nodded. “So I went to Braavos,” he said, “just as I was told to. I found the right girl quick enough, and passed that message along. She might have been a pretty thing, if not for that great scar-”

Jon grunted pointedly.

Duck scowled at Jon. “And so, job complete, I fancied myself a walk on the town. Figured I might spend a couple days finding some fun.” Duck picked at the inside of his right ear. “But I heard some queer talk, and so I went for its source.”

“Is it news of my aunt?” Aegon asked. “Or perhaps ill tidings from Westeros?”

Duck held his ear-picking hand up, halting any further queries. “I found that source at an inn at the Ragman’s Harbor, the one with all of the cats. There I met a knight from Westeros. One Ser Alliser Thorne.”

Aegon thought to his years of studying Westerosi houses. Thorne, Thorne, Thorne. It came to him suddenly: a smaller house, but still noble. Directly vassal to the crown, and staunch loyalists during the War of the Usurper. Aegon’s eyes widened. “Is Westeros truly so shaken after the death of the Usurper?” Jon had hoped it might be the case, but they hadn’t truly given it so much thought.

“Yes,” Duck said, “but that is something else entirely. This Ser Alliser was a man of the Night’s Watch.”

_This gets stranger and stranger._

“He was sailing to King’s Landing to request aid at the Wall, when he was waylaid some by the storm. He had not meant to stop in Braavos.”

A chill crawled up Aegon’s spine. _The Wall._

“But what about a brother of the Night’s Watch would warrant such chatter in the streets?” Aegon asked. “Surely, it would not be so fascinating to the smallfolk.”

“Aye,” Duck confirmed. “It wasn’t. It was what he had in his possession that started _that_ fire.” Duck looked to Jon, who still stood glowering into the hearth. But when Jon said nothing, he continued. “A severed, rotting hand, with skin as black as jet. He held it in a small cage, and I thought it odd. At least, until the hand came alive.”

Aegon laughed. “All this show for such a tale?” He scanned the faces of everyone, and saw little sharing of his humor. Everyone was acting the mummer to perfection! “Jon, what did Duck offer you in exchange to play along with this farce?” He asked, still laughing. A living hand? This was truly one of Duck’s best yet.

When Jon didn’t respond, Aegon turned back to Duck, whose face was grave.

“The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch was attacked in the night, by two men who had been dead mere hours earlier.”

This was a true ghost story now! Certainly one he would tell others when given the chance.

“No matter how they were cut, they continued to attack. Only fire could put them back to the grave where they belonged.”

This was a bit excessive, in truth. But it was still wonderful.

“Ser Alliser says their eyes were blue, when they were not before.”

In a heartbeat, Griff’s merriment vanished. _Blue eyes._

_… he saw eyes, eyes bluer than blue, and high sharp cracks, almost like laughter rang in his ear…_

Griff found his mouth dry suddenly, and he felt cold, despite the fire Jon had kept burning high.

“‘Cold winds are rising’, he’d said. The Wall might not stand without aid, and so he went south with that dead but living hand as his proof.”

Griff looked from one face to the next. Each was grim, quiet, and uncertain.

“This changes nothing,” Jon said, finally turning away from the fire, his mouth a thin line. “The Wall has stood for eight thousand years and I am certain it will stand for eight thousand more.” His eyes betrayed the force in his words.

Griff licked his lips, searching for the right words. Alone, his nightmare had been upsetting, but not alarming. Now, it was an omen. Darkness beyond the Wall. A great cold. The Wall collapsing. Blue, blue eyes.

Few Kings had ever been heroes in truth. Leaders great and poor, weak and strong, mad and prescient. Many Kings with many manners, and all with dreams of their own. But Griff in that moment knew that his dream had not been like others. This one was true.

Griff breathed in, then out, the fire within him rekindling. He knew what they would say, what Jon would warn against, but it was then that he knew his path forward.

_If a King will not fight for his kingdom and its people, by whose right is he King?_

“If cold winds are rising at the wall,” Aegon said, “then it sounds as though the Night’s Watch has need of a dragon.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed chapter! I hope to update about once a week, and this will probably be about the length most chapters will be. If you see any errors, lore or spelling wise, let me know!


	3. The Griffinslayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon wants to go to the Wall, Jon Connington doesn't

_Chapter III: The Griffinslayer_

“Then they must needs find another,” Jon had said.

Aegon had immediately become petulant (to his later shame), and was quickly escorted from Lemore and Haldon’s room by the exiled lord of Griffin’s Roost and sent back to bed like any common peasant boy.

The next morning he’d been told the other news that Duck had brought from Braavos. Since the death of the Usurper, it seemed Kings were growing ever more common in the Seven Kingdoms. Not simply one, but two others had crowned themselves King in the wake of the Usurper’s spawn’s ascension. The younger brother of the Usurper in the South, and the former Lord Stark as King to the revived Kingdom of the North. That news in particular had traveled remarkably quickly (from a White Harbor merchant, Duck had claimed). That it was the younger brother of the Usurper who had claimed himself over the Usurper’s son and not the elder of the two still remaining brothers was not lost on Jon or Haldon either.

The Baratheon dynasty at its own throat and the Starks entering the fray on their own behalf was more than any of them could have expected to occur, and this was yet more fuel for Jon’s fire to sit and wait, to Aegon’s fury.

“The Seven Kingdoms tear themselves apart. The time is more ripe than ever for the son of Rhaegar Targaryen to reclaim his stolen throne and bring peace and prosperity to the realm, mending the wounds wrought by the Usurper,” Jon had said, “We wait for your aunt and her screamers. An army of Dothraki and the Golden Company would be unmatchable in the field.”

“ _But that hand!”_ Aegon had shouted back.

“That can _wait,”_ Jon had said with finality. “When you are king and your throne is secure, you can chase as many ghost stories as you like. Like as not, Ser Rolly was drunk and took an illusionist’s trick for truth.” But that rang hollow in Aegon’s ears, and he knew that not even Jon believed it.

Aegon had let it die, at least for the moment. Jon was a stubborn mule, and Aegon had known that about the man he had called father for about as long as he had been able to hold a training sword. But Aegon also knew that Jon’s first instinct was always to refuse, and that enough pestering would slowly crumble his considerable defenses.

And crumble he would, because Aegon wasn’t going to spend a second longer in Essos than he was forced to. His Kingdom needed him, even if the people didn’t know it.

When he closed his eyes, he still saw the pinpricks of blue in the blizzard. He still heard that crackling “laughter”. He still felt that world-ending cold.

And so time passed.

Aegon continued his tutoring on the Faith with Septa Lemore, though it felt even less important now than ever. It was difficult to focus on the exact nature of the godhead and the ways in which the different aspects of the true God intersected when one felt the pull of destiny (“Leave the heavens to the septons,” Duck once said). He kept up his studies with Haldon, for those had always been more interesting to him, and were more directly applicable to kingship. He trained as hard as he ever did with Duck, knowing that his swordsmanship would be important no matter the route the party decided to take in the end.

But he didn’t let a day pass when he wouldn’t bring the matter to Jon’s attention, one way or another.

-

“Lemore, tell me of the Old Gods,” Aegon said one morning. He’d heard more than enough concerning the doctrine of exceptionalism. It’s not as though there were any unwed Targaryen women for him to betroth himself to, so he was somewhat annoyed at the detail Lemore went into on the topic.

She gave him a stern look, the effect all the more enhanced by her actual wearing of the Septa’s habit (as she frequently went without it, particularly when the weather was warm). “You know that the Old Gods are not my concern,” she replied.

“The North is one of my Seven Kingdoms as well,” he said. _Even if they are currently rebelling_. “I should know of them and their beliefs as much as any others.”

Lemore saw straight through him. His ploy was obvious to her, but he hadn’t meant for it to be anything but. She let out a light _humph_. “The Old Gods are given little consideration in the Faith,” she said. “I profess that I know precious little of the Northmen and their trees.”

“But surely you must have met a Northerner,” he insisted. “And he must have told you something of his faith.”

She rested her hands in her lap. “I knew Northerners… Once.”

“And?”

Lemore’s fingers intertwined in her lap. She stared down at them. Then, finally. “Theirs is a quiet faith. A personal one.” She looked up to him, making eye contact. “It has little of the ceremony the Faith does. No Maiden’s Day, no sculptures or statues, no septons or septas or Most Devout. The faith of the First Men is a conversation between each individual believer and the Gods they hold sacred.” She looked up to him. “When the Andals first came to Westeros, they came with fire and sword, bringing our God with them and the seven-pointed star carved into their foreheads. They razed the villages and holdfasts of the First Men, and cut and burned Weirwood groves to cinders.” 

“Not very nice of them,” Aegon said with a smirk.

She swatted at him. There was no real force, and he dodged it easily. He had made such japes many a time; it was one of many games they played. “Besides the North, which withstood the invasion of the Andals, the remainder of Westeros found itself mixing with the Andal conquerors. Most, adopted the Faith of the Seven. What remained of the First Men’s faith was a fractured, weakened thing. Most of the rites and ceremonies they may have once had lost were lost to war and time. Weirwood trees remain at many House seats in Westeros in their Godswoods, as a token of the Andals’ good will to those who remained fervent in their faith.”

“And what of the Old Gods themselves?”

Lemore looked beyond him then, seeing so far away as to see nothing at all. “They are nameless, but numerous. Most in the North believe that they fled the South entirely with the destruction of the Weirwood groves. They inhabit everything there is to see or feel. Every stream that flows between your fingers, every stone that turns beneath your feet, every desperately grasping tree, every hill and every mountain. Believers claim they hear them in the music of a river, or the in the wind through the leaves of trees.”

Aegon was quiet for a time as he turned it around in his head. He’d heard parts of it all before at one time or another, but in light of his plans it rang somewhat different. It was… almost sad, in a way. A faith that had spread across all Westeros, from the Wall to Dorne, all but snuffed out. Reduced to something frail and forgotten. “Does it not feel… wrong, maybe? To espouse a religion that destroyed another so?”

“No,” she replied, “I don’t feel it does.”  When he made to reply, she waved him off. “There is no shame in being the conqueror, and you of all people, _Aegon_ , should understand that. The First Men conquered the Children before them, or so they say, and the Andals the First Men, and Aegon the Dragon and his sisters the both of them. Only, Aegon accepted the Seven as the First Men once accepted the Old Gods from the Children. On the Black Dread’s back, Aegon might have burnt the Starry Sept to the ground and forced the Valyrian gods upon us all. Instead, he took our God as his own.”

She fingered the seven-pointed star pendant she wore about her neck. “Here in Essos, it may be difficult to feel the touch of the Seven, but I feel it all the same. Whether you truly accept God into your heart, only you will ever be able to decide, but if you intend to be King then you must at least accept them for the realm to see.”

“As Aegon the Conqueror once did,” Aegon finished.

-

“Haldon, tell me of the Wall,” Aegon said one afternoon. Wherever they traveled, the Halfmaester carried several chests full of books. They were easily among the heaviest of the cargo their party carried. The books meant that wherever they went, Haldon could fashion something of a study for himself. Septa Lemore and Haldon shared rooms during most of their extended stays at inns and taverns. It was convenient, for she had little in the way of personal affects. This was all the better, as it was more room for Halfmaester’s impromptu study.

“You know of the Wall,” Haldon said, “We aren’t fools, Aegon. We know very well what you are doing; Septa Lemore tells Jon of your little discussions.”

Aegon sat back in the chair that was allotted him and crossed his arms. “Good!” he said, not being able to help the petulance that poisoned his words. “I want him to know what his King seeks!”

Haldon shook his head. “Any man who must say ‘I am the King’…”

 _Is no true king at all._ Aegon slumped in his chair. If they didn’t want him to make demands, they never should have told him who he was. Griff son of Griff was content to live the life they asked of him, but Aegon couldn’t sit back and wait. Wouldn’t.

Haldon sifted through the stack of parchments he had withdrawn from his chest before this lesson had started. At last, he found the one he sought and held it out to Aegon imploringly. “Duck brought that from Braavos,” he said.

Aegon took it. It was unmistakably written in Duck’s shoddy hand. When Duck had learned that the boy Griff he instructed in the art of battle was in truth Aegon (indeed, this was at the same time Aegon himself had learned that little fact), he had taken it upon himself to learn his letters. He’d insisted that “if a duck is to serve a dragon, then it damn well better learn to read and write.” Aegon’s insistence that neither ducks nor dragons could do either of those things fell on deaf ears of course. It had been painstaking, but Haldon had proven his mastery by teaching an old duck new tricks.

The parchment bore notes that Duck had taken during his stay in Braavos.

“Whether he was intoxicated, as Jon claims, or not, what he saw in that tavern rattled him,” Haldon said.

The scrawlings on the paper were frantic, it seemed. It contained more or less everything Duck had relayed to Aegon that fateful night. Duck must have written it all down to ensure that he forgot nothing. At the bottom was a simple statement, with several lines scratched underneath it for emphasis.

_ THE NIGHT’S WATCH REQUIRES AID _

Aegon bristled. He couldn’t stand this.

“It is said that giants aided Brandon the Builder’s construction of the Wall,” Haldon finally said. “And that he used long forgotten magics to bind the ice to earth and wood. Much and more is said of the feats of Brandon the Builder, but little is known for truth. Long ago, the Wall was manned by perhaps tens of thousands of men. Needless to say, it has dwindled. Only a handful of keeps remain, mayhap less. Few, if any, deem it worthy to subject themselves to the cold and deprivation one finds at the Wall.”

_Unless their only other options are death, mutilation, or castration._

“Any claims of Others, wights, grumkins, or snarks, have been long disputed by the Citadel. Generally it is agreed that any such creatures are long gone from the world. Many will go so far as to say they never existed at all, and are mere legends. The Wall is more than enough to fend off Wildlings, in any case.”

“But… you left the Citadel because you disagreed with their methods,” Aegon said, his grip tightening around the edge of the parchment. “So why put any stock in their conclusions then, Halfmaester?”

Haldon considered it. That was one thing Aegon would always love Haldon for; no matter how inane his questions or ponderances might be, the Halfmaester was always willing to give it some thought, and not simply dismiss the thoughts out of hand.

“I studied the higher mysteries at the Citadel, trying my hand at magecraft myself. No matter how I repeated the so-called ‘spells’ or incantations, no matter the omens or constellations I waited on, I could produce nothing one might call magic. Magic is gone from the world, Aegon,” Haldon answered. “Our party has traveled all over Essos. Have _you_ seen anything that cast doubt on that statement?”

Aegon had seen much and more in one Free City or another. He had witnessed the bearded priests in Norvos and heard its great bells, so like the voices gods. He had seen the Red Priests at their nightfires in Pentos, and even heard their grand proclamations of visions in the flames. He had even once seen a blue lipped warlock of Qarth with his entourage in Braavos. Yet not one of those times, could Aegon say he had truly witnessed what he might call magic. But… there was one thing.

“And what of Daenys the Dreamer?” Aegon asked.

“Hmm?” Haldon quirked an eyebrow, clearly confused by his change in conversation.

“She was not the only Targaryen to dream of prophecy, correct? There were others, even after the last dragons died.”

“Indeed, there were others. Can you name them?”

Aegon found his tongue quickly, he’d given the question much thought as he lay in bed each night since Duck returned. “King Aegon V, I think. And my father.” It was strange to think of Rhaegar as his father, even now, over a year since he learned the truth.

Haldon nodded. “Daemon II Blackfyre, as well,” he said, “Though he was no Targaryen by name, his blood was as much of the Dragon as yours. Tell me, Aegon, what do these three dreamers share?”

Aegon thought. The fifth King Aegon died in flames at the tragedy at Summerhall, where his father was born. He had sought to hatch dragons, Haldon said. Rhaegar was dead at the Trident, killed by the Usurper Robert Baratheon, after some mad notion to seize the Stark girl. The second Daemon Blackfyre was more difficult. He was something of a minor detail in the Halfmaester’s teachings. He… he had attempted a rebellion. Yes, that was it. The second Blackfyre rebellion. His dreams had spoken of dragons and kingship, and instead, his rebellion had been snuffed out before it ever began, and he died in the Black Cells of Kings Landing.

“Ruin,” Aegon said, fighting the tremor in his throat. They had all perished following the path their dreams had set.

Haldon took the parchment from Aegon’s hand.

“Aye, ruin.”

-

The next morning, Aegon sought out Duck rather than Septa Lemore. Jon had sparred with Aegon some while Duck was away, but he didn’t get into it quite like Duck did. While the ocean air of the Bay of Lorath dulled the heat somewhat, the Essosi sun was ever scorching later in the day. So it was always best to spar early if they could help it.

It was Lemore who helped him pull on his armor though. He could handle his thick padding well enough on his own, but the armor gave him trouble at times. Her hand was particularly deft at the ties of his armor. With a quick profusion of thanks, Aegon whisked himself outside the inn.

The town they had occupied these past moons was a small sort of center, but it was well guarded enough (and close enough to the sea) that Dothraki had not nipped at its heels for some decades. While close to Lorath, it was in actuality subservient to the interests of Braavos, and while Braavos prided itself on its supremacy over most of the Free Cities, it was not above trade with them when tensions cooled. This town acted as a last stop between Braavos and Lorath for those times. Being a small port, Aegon had utilized every chance to discuss the goings on with every new batch of sailors. It was a nice opportunity to practice his trade talk as well as the different sorts of Bastard Valyrian.

Aegon found the lightly grassed clearing that sat squat between the inn and a few trees. Haldon was already sitting beneath one of the trees with a thick tome in his hands. Duck leaned against another tree, armored and ready to fight with both of their weapons in hand.

“You ready Young Griff?” Duck called out as he neared. They fell back to his old name whenever they might be heard by others. At his nod in response, Duck walked into the sunlight and tossed Aegon his tourney sword in a clean, practiced motion.

Catching it out of the air, Aegon relaxed some. His night had been less than pleasant, as he wrestled with thoughts of his dream, and ultimately had a troubled sleep. Those nightmares were normal, but no less troubling to his demeanor. The familiar weight of a tourney sword in his hand allowed him to forget his worries, at least in part. The sword was a bastard sword.

Despite his insistences as a child, his fa–Jon had rarely allowed him to practice at sword and shield. It had never made sense to Aegon, why he should use only a sword when he might use a shield as well. A shield was just as much a potential weapon as any blade. Still, he had practiced at the hand and a half sword for as long as he could hold a wooden imitation, and the day he had progressed to tourney swords had been one of his proudest.

Duck smirked at him and lowered his visor, readying his sword. He favored stances with middle guards, and had imparted that same favor upon Aegon through years of practice.

Aegon mirrored him, his visor already lowered.

It was Duck who struck first, with a sudden thrust (the “Duck’s peck” Aegon had once japed) that nearly caught him off guard. He’d expected Duck to be somewhat out of practice after so much time spent at sea. Aegon batted it to the side with a quick parry but Duck was on him again in an instant with a counterstroke to his side. Aegon blocked that as well and went for a hard slash at Duck’s feet to trip him.

Duck retreated swiftly however and remained standing.

“What do you think, Duck?” Aegon asked.

“About that slash?”

“No, about–“

Duck advanced quickly, barreling into Aegon with a hard shoulder, knocking him to the ground. “It could be better.” Aegon could hear the smirk in his voice.

Growling, Aegon kicked out at Duck and slashed wildly to force him to back up. Returning to his feet as quick as he could manage, Aegon attempted to let the taunt leave him. Duck knew just how to infuriate him. He knew he was predictable when he was angry.

“About the Wall,” Aegon finally bit out. “About Ser Alliser Thorne.” They had talked some in the time since his return, but Duck had avoided any mention of what he had been witness to in Braavos. “About the hand.”

Duck rushed forward again, feinting to his left but striking hard at his right. Aegon fended it off and swung at his midsection. He was rewarded with a grunt and Duck retreating once more.

“I think it terrified me out of my wits,” Duck replied, serious for once in his life. “It was no trick, and as much I might have liked otherwise, I’d but a sip of wine.”

“It was a rotted hand, truly?”

“Truly.”

Aegon advanced this time, aiming at his head to ring him like one of Norvos’ bells. Duck parried, but Aegon kept it up, swinging first at his chest, then his upper leg, then back to his head. Finally, he got him on the hand and Duck dropped his sword, gasping.

Duck made a grab for Aegon’s blade, but Aegon slashed at him. Duck, proving his fitness, dodged out of the bastard sword’s reach.

Aegon knelt for Duck’s sword and tossed it to him as he had done at the beginning of their bout; Duck caught it just as easily.

“Whatever is happening beyond the Wall…” Duck said, trailing off. “…I like it not”

Aegon looked over to Haldon. He was still reading studiously, but Aegon knew he always kept one ear open, even when he seemed busy. “I had a dream,” Aegon said, lowering his voice.

Duck didn’t respond immediately, instead charging him and sending several sweeping strikes his way. “Aye, I had a dream too.” Exertion was evident in his voice, even as Aegon parried and returned slashes. “About the Black Pearl.” He laughed.

Aegon attacked low, but half-heartedly. Duck parried and they clashed several times, producing a terrible clamor. “No, Duck,” Aegon said, batting aside Duck’s blade, “I dreamt of the Wall before you returned.” Duck thrusted and Aegon side stepped, aiming a one-handed strike for his back. “About a terrible cold and blue eyes.” Duck took the hit, stopping suddenly.

“I dreamt that the Wall fell, Duck. Right to bits.”

Duck didn’t respond.

Aegon could only see shadows of flesh and eyes behind Duck’s visor. He couldn’t assess his reaction well with so little visible. He pushed on, heedless. “You agree with me, don’t you Duck.”

“About going to the Wall?” Duck finally replied.

Aegon nodded.

Duck readied his blade again. “I do,” he said, shaking his head, “Seven Gods save me.”

-

It was when the sun sat high in the sky and Aegon was coated in sweat beyond what he thought possible that Jon finally showed himself. He had been spending an unusual amount of time at the town’s small harbor, and considering his own habit, this was notable.

Aegon raised his visor and squatted down to help Duck return to his feet, the both of them panting profusely. He turned toward the tree whose shade Haldon had been taking advantage of and saw the newcomer plainly. Jon stood looming beside the still reading Halfmaester, arms crossed and visage as grim as ever it was.

Duck raised his visor, his green eyes creased in a grin. “You go get ‘im, eh?” He said, holding his hand out.

Aegon passed over his tourney sword. “Soon I think I shall be winning more than I’m losing, Duck,” Aegon said, smirking.

“Bah, there’s still a white yet. I’ve been counting.”

Laughing, Aegon tore off his helmet and shook his hair out. It felt good to feel the ocean breeze after hours in an iron shell. He tossed it to Duck as well. He made his way over to Jon, and found his contented grin fading from his lips. By the time he stood in front of the exiled lord, he matched him in expression.

Jon’s red roots were showing. He would need to dye his hair again soon if hoped to keep any semblance of a disguise. Aegon’s fair hair had always taken to the blue dye somewhat easier, and when his roots showed, it was less stark.

“Walk with me, son,” Jon said.

Aegon did.

Because despite everything he had learned, everything that had changed, it was still what felt most natural to him.

They walked for a time in silence, Aegon following the man he’d once called “father’s” lead. They walked the roads of the oceanside town, passing women carrying baskets with children at their heels, men carrying early morning catches, and enterprising smallfolk of all ages hawking goods of one sort or another. Aegon might have bought a clam or cockle had he not just fought. Eating so soon after swordplay tended to make him ill.

 Before, they were never “smallfolk” to him. For most of his life they had merely been “folk”.  To part of him still, they were simply “folk”. But that’s not how a king ought to think, or so Jon said.

The small harbor was always where it was most busy. Men and women bustled from one end to the other, raucous sailors hauled this cargo or that cargo from ship to pier and back. A great beast of a whaling ship sat on the far end of the harbor, the hairy men of Ibb apparent even from this distance.

“Where are we going?” Aegon asked. He felt somewhat awkward, still wearing most of his armor and padding. They might have stopped at the inn and allowed him to change into fresh clothing.

Jon indicated to the closest pier. No ship was harbored there, so it was miraculously empty.

When they stood on the pier, and Jon still didn’t say anything, Aegon knelt and removed his greaves, then his boots. Task complete, he sat on the edge and dipped his feet into the cool water. For all that the lands and islands about the Lorath Bay were considered poor among the Free Cities, it was still beautiful. He stared out toward the horizon, taking in the great blue expanse of the Lorathi Sea. For a moment, he couldn’t even hear the shouts of the sailors, the creaking of hulls, or the squawking of seabirds. All he could see was the blue. It made him remember the first time he’d dyed his hair with Jon.

“All that I do, I do for you,” Jon said suddenly.

Aegon stopped swaying his legs in the water. The cacophony of the harbor returned. He turned and looked up to Jon, who stared out to the ocean as he had moments before. This was not something he expected from Jon, not in the least.

“I know,” Aegon said.

Jon was silent again, for a time. “Your father–he chased legends. He chased dreams. He was regal and gallant and _everything_ that a king should be.” He stopped, then started, “He might have brought the Seven Kingdoms into a golden age… Jaeharys the Conciliator come again. Instead, he chased legends and he died.”

“…I know.”

Jon turned to Aegon then. “In the end, it did not matter how rightful his claim was, how principled he was, or how much knowledge he accrued. It did not matter that he thought that prophecy called him to act, how he did what he must, how kingly he _might_ have been. None of that mattered,” he said. “What mattered is that he died in the waters of the Trident.”

Aegon said nothing. He knew all of this, but…

“I won’t let it happen again,” Jon said as he turned back toward the ocean, the breeze catching his still mostly blue hair.

Aegon didn’t know how to respond to that. Vulnerability was not something he had ever expected from his father, and definitely not Jon Connington.

“I am not my sire,” Aegon said, “No matter my blood, there is more of you in me than there is Rhaegar Targaryen.” Jon’s head whipped to him, but Aegon continued, “You didn’t raise a fool. Nor did Lemore, nor Haldon, nor even Duck.”

Jon didn’t cut him off.

“I dreamt of the Wall, Jon.” He said, suddenly feeling the chill once again. “I dreamt of a cold so severe, so freezing, that it would surely end all. I dreamt of the Wall crumbling to dust. I saw the eyes of which Ser Alliser Thorne spoke. I dreamt it all the night Duck returned.”

Aegon saw the fear and uncertainty behind Jon’s eyes, he understood it even, on some level. But he knew what he had to do.

“I know how it must sound, Jon, I _do_ , but I will not make the mistakes of the man who sired me.” He lowered his voice. “A king cannot follow forever.”

“They cannot,” Jon agreed.

“Winter is coming Jon, and I fear that if I do not go, it may be the last.” Aegon felt a firm hand on his shoulder and looked up.

Jon looked tired, tired far beyond his years. But when he looked down at Aegon, he saw that there was some fire yet in him.

“We’ll go to Braavos then,” Jon Connington said. “And after a time, from there to Eastwatch.” The hand on Aegon’s shoulder clenched.

Aegon stood then, his eyes almost level with Jon’s own.

“Thank you,” he said. Slipping his boots back on and picking up his greaves, Aegon headed back toward the town, Jon following close behind.

A ship was coming in.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter III! I ended up typing a lot more than I had intended to, but I really wanted to give Team Aegon some more time to shine before the plot kicks into gear. I hope you don't think this is spinning its wheels after the ending of the last chapter, but I think this is a more realistic course of events than JonCon immediately acquiescing and running off to the Wall. I'm also personally not a fan of hyperspeed pacing, but we'll be heading off to Westeros soon enough, I promise. 
> 
> As before, if you see any errors, let me know! Hope you enjoy it.


	4. Comets, Claims, Cockles, and Clams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Aegon goes to Braavos

_Chapter IV: Comets, Claims, Cockles, and Clams_

It had taken longer than expected for Jon to charter passage to Braavos for the five of them and their cargo. It was a port town, so this was somewhat surprising. After all, easy transport was the reason they had stopped there in the first place; it gave Duck a direct journey to Braavos and back for his missive carrying. Duck had been only one man though, and trade was booming in the Free Cities, so it made some sense that few would want to take on five travelers and their goods as well when so much gold was being made transporting goods alone.

They tended not to stay in one place for long, and the original plan had been to perhaps visit Lorath itself for a time. Lorath, being one of the poorer Free Cities, might not have been the most exciting adventure, but it would have been an adventure nonetheless. Yandry and Ysilla with their _Shy Maid_ were still on the far end of the Rhoyne most like, and they had not been due to meet them on the close end for some time.

He had looked forward to seeing the two of them again, and sailing down the Rhoyne as well. It had been a few years, and he loved them dearly. He hoped they would forgive him when they saw him next.

Aegon had spent the meantime continuing his drills with Duck and his tutoring with Lemore and Haldon. He delved deeper into the circumstances surrounding the Second Blackfyre Rebellion, and even moved backwards to more closely examine the first as well. He talked of Gods of all sorts with Lemore: Old, New, Red, and others. With Duck, he had even finally been allowed to practice with live steel. They knew not what dangers lurked at the Wall, so it was of import that Aegon knew the balance and feel of a genuine blade (Blackfyre Rebellions fresh in his mind, he bestowed his simple hand-and-a-halfer with the name _Brightfyre_ ).

He continued to dream of the Wall. Little changed in his dreams. Sometimes, he felt he could remain flying for a fraction longer before becoming a man once again and tumbling down as the Wall crumbled. Sometimes, he swore he could make out figures in the blizzard, but most times he could only keep sight of the blue eyes. Always, he woke with the chill of death lodged deeply in his spine, and fear clutching his heart like a dead man’s grip.

It was during Jon’s search for a willing captain that the comet appeared, streaking across the sky in a crimson swipe like a painter’s mistake on a blue canvas. Aegon had been training with Duck when he noticed it, and had earned himself a swat on the back of his helmet when he stopped to gape at it.

After Duck’s laughter and jeering, he too had turned to gape at it.

Lemore thought it an auspicious portent. It was Targaryen scarlet, she claimed, and a sure sign that Aegon was on the right path. Haldon was less sure, taking the time to explain the Citadel’s views on such celestial bodies as comets.

Perhaps Lemore was correct though, because it was shortly after the comet began its heavenly journey that Jon finally stumbled on a captain and ship willing to take their party on. What he found was an ungainly galley called the _Drunken Widow_. Aegon quickly took a liking to the look of it. He found that he had a certain affection for ugly ships (mayhaps he had experienced the _Shy Maid_ too early in his life), finding that they seemed to have more character to him.

Duck, of course, disagreed. “Character? Bah! Were that ship a woman I would take care to leave the candles unlit if you take my meaning,” he’d said.

Aegon had been the first onto the ship to help Duck carry their heavy chests laden with Haldon’s books into the cargo hold. The air had felt fresher on the deck, somehow, even though it was scarce different from breathing that same air on the docks. Aegon liked ships. He liked sailing. He was more at home at sea or river than he had ever been on any sort of steed, so perhaps it was comfort that enhanced his senses.

The voyage had passed well enough. The crew proved rowdy and quarrelsome whenever the opportunity for a quarrel presented itself, but he found that he liked the arguments and the dicing and betting and everything else. Jon never did; he seemed vaguely worried that the oarsmen might take up arms against the captain (a thick bellied man from Myr with a thunder in his throat), though in truth he misliked near every crew they had ever sailed with. Aegon saw it for what it was though; a quiet ship was a boring one, and the men knew that, surely.

Jon’s general distrust of common men aside, the ship made its way across the waters of the Bay of Lorath quickly enough, the comet making its way across the sky all the while. Aegon performed odd tasks for the _Drunken Widow_ ’s crew as they went. Bandying out provisions, trimming sails, even taking to the oars for a time. Jon thought the work ill fit for a king, he knew, but Aegon cared little for his opinion in such matters.

One night, as they supped, an oarsman by the name of Lazeo asked him a simple question.

“You don’t look like no Tyroshi man I ever seen,” he said as he tore through some salted fish. “So why blue?” He indicated to Aegon’s hair.

The old lies had spilled from his lips easily. They had not been lies to him for much of his life, and some days he forgot they were lies at all. “My mother was Tyroshi,” he replied. “But she died when I was very young. My father and I dye our hair blue in her memory.”

“Ah,” Lazeo said, his mouth full of fishmeat and hard biscuit, “I knew a Tyroshi girl. Fine woman she was.” He’d raised his allotment of wine then, and said, “To your mother!”

Aegon raised his as well, smiling in thanks of the gesture.

After, he had thought of Elia Martell, his mother in truth. While very different from the woman Jon had told stories of in his youth, she was just as dead. Jon had always said that his mother (“Seresa”, he had named her) had been killed by a thief, looking for his father’s gold while Jon and he had been at market (he would only have been two or so). Aegon had taken to the story easily; his earliest years were a blur to him, and all through childhood Jon had possessed a seemingly limitless purse of gold. He had been distraught to hear the tale of his mother’s death when Jon finally had deemed him old enough.

So naturally, the truth was far worse.

Elia Martell, a frail woman held as all but hostage to a mad king, married to a man who ran off with a girl-woman and plunged the kingdom into war. She’d given his father two fine children, despite her known infirmity, and in return she received death. Raped and killed at the orders of Tywin Lannister, while his young sister was stabbed a hundred times, and his poor replacement’s head dashed into nothing. Only her fear of his grandfather and his own young age had pushed her to agree to the plot that saw him spirited across the Narrow Sea.

All he had of her was his complexion. Not so dark as Rhaenys or his mother, but not quite so light as his father.

So often now, he thought of himself as a Targaryen. A dynasty all but extinct, especially now after the death of his uncle Viserys. The Targaryen name itself would die if he did not one day marry and have children. But he was as much Martell as he was Targaryen, and through Elia he still had much in the way of living family. Prince Doran and his three children, as well as the storied Red Viper and his brood of bastards. He longed to meet them all one day, but he could easily see the distaste for his mother and her family whenever Jon spoke of them.

He wanted to ask what they had ever done to him to garner such emotions, but as yet he had not been able to find the words.

With the speed of the ship, it was not long before Aegon found himself in Braavos (“Right under the gate of the Titan’s Bollocks,” Duck said). The Titan never failed to astonish Aegon, though now it seemed somewhat lesser in comparison to the Wall of his dreams. Still, it was one of Lomas Longstrider’s Nine Wonders Made by Man, and so it was impressive nonetheless, even if the Wall dwarfed it by near three hundred feet.

The roar and bustle of the Ragman’s Harbor was always a wonder to him as well. Few places he had ever been could claim to be as lively as it was on near any day. As he and Duck carried Haldon’s chests the distressingly long way to Jon’s chosen inn, they had passed Aegon’s favorite resident of Braavos. The kingly seal clapped and barked and made a racket while a cutpurse plied his trade on the onlookers. He had waved to Casso as he walked, and was delighted to see the recognition in the trained seal’s demeanor.

No sooner than they had become situated in their lodgings at the _Sailmender’s_ did Jon spring into action. Immediately, he had Duck snatch up a considerable amount of parchment and ink at market, and then he got about his business.

-

“What are you doing?” Aegon asked, sitting on his bed in the room he and Jon shared at the _Sailmender’s_.

Jon’s quill scratched furiously at the parchment. Rarely did Aegon see such a look of concentration on his foster father’s face. “Attempting to salvage the mess you have so heroically drawn us into before it occurs.”

Aegon scowled. “You agreed with me, damn you!” he said, throwing his arms out.

“Yes, I did. That is why I am the one salvaging it,” Jon replied, growling slightly.

Aegon peered over at the letter. “Is it to Illyrio, then?”

Illyrio was… interesting. Aegon had dull memories of the man from his earliest childhood, from before Jon had become Griff and taken him as his son. Lemore had raised him in Illyrio’s manse, while the magister himself had been something of a kindly uncle to him. Candied ginger had been a favorite snack of his ever since. He had met Illyrio again the times they had visited Pentos, but rarely spent much time in the company of the fat man. He was kind enough to Aegon, and had evidently been a great swordsman in his youth (which was always something Aegon appreciated in a person), but he was also seemingly constantly busy. Busy or gorging himself.

He was a grotesque sight to look upon, truly, but Aegon knew that when he finally sat the Iron Throne, it would be in large part due to the will of Magister Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos. What Illyrio expected in return, he could not say, but it did not seem possible that he would play kingmaker for no reward. The investment was too great for such a tradesman to not receive something from it.

“Yes,” Jon said after a particularly violent quill scratching, “and to others as well. Lord Varys, Harry Strickland…”

Varys… The Golden Company…Illyrio and his wealth… Aegon frowned to himself.

When he was much younger, when Haldon had first begun to tutor him on history, houses, poetry, and so on, Aegon had been a terror. He knew this. He had been Seven Hells to keep from jumping out of his seat and grasping for something to play with. It had taken considerable time and effort (and a number of strikes) to tame his energy and mold him into a proper student. “You never cease wriggling,” Jon had complained, so long ago “You are a damned stoat.” While he had learned to mitigate his wild impulses, he was still a vigorous youth, and he had grown into a vigorous man. He threw himself into every task, kept moving, not resting if he could help it. Deep down, he knew he would never be able to sit still for long.

After Jon, Haldon, and Lemore finally told him that he was not the Young Griff, that he was in truth Aegon Targaryen heir to the Iron Throne, and of the plans already in place to seize it for him, his tendency to keep himself moving only grew.

Little of the plans made any sort of sense to him. Why the Golden Company would fight and die for a Targaryen was beyond him, and what Illyrio stood to gain even further. The Spider only made the web more complex and for the life of him he could not link it all together into something coherent. He could not think about it. Instead, he accepted it for what it was, and carried it forward.

 _If I look back, I am lost_.

Whatever the reasons, whatever the motives, they intended to help him win his throne, and he would not send back so gracious a gift.

“And Aemon Targaryen…” Jon continued, jogging Aegon from his thoughts.

Aegon almost gaped. “The maester at the Wall? He still lives?” he asked.

“We shall see, shall we not?” Jon responded, still writing.

Aegon had never considered that the man might still be drawing breath. _He must be north of one hundred years!_

“Your father wrote letters to him frequently enough.”

He knew the stories of King Daeron the Good’s children well. Aemon had been a maester first, then a man of the Night’s Watch, for fear that some would use him as a political tool against his younger brother, Aegon V’s rule. Aegon had always hoped to meet Viserys (before his death), and still wanted to meet Daenerys, but she was even younger and further removed from the Targaryen history than he was. To meet Aemon Targaryen, who had seen so much in his long life, would be beyond his wildest anticipations.

“But would it not be a risk to tell him of my identity?” Aegon asked.

Jon stopped writing. “Yes, it would be.” His quill resumed scratching. “I would not have us greet the Watch as interlopers. Their resources, their manpower, their very keeps have deteriorated. If we might come bearing gifts of food, weapons, and materials, then it is less likely they might doubt our intentions,”

“And the Golden Company.”

Jon nodded solemnly. “With ten thousand swords at our back, whatever threat lurks beyond the Wall will be of little concern, be it a new wildling king… or dead men walking. But if we are to do this, armies must be moved, ships must be gathered, goods bought and transported… In short, messages must fly. I would have booked passage to Pentos to discuss matters with Illyrio personally if I did not think you would escape to Westeros without me to watch you.”

Aegon laughed. That would be a very real possibility, especially if Illyrio did not prove amenable. He dared not deny it.

Grumbling, Jon shook his head. “Seven curse these Free Cities and their dearth of ravens.”

-

Moons passed, with Aegon growing ever more infuriated with each successive turn, the red comet blazing and blazing across the sky all the while.

Aegon used his time as he always had. Lessons with Haldon, discussions (as well as harp and other sorts of lessons) with Lemore, sparring with Duck, and exploring every inch of the city he could. Haggling with fishwives, snacks of shellfish beyond counting, catching sight of courtesans once or twice a fortnight, roaming the Isle of the Gods. “A learned man is a wise one,” Haldon liked to say, and so he sought new experiences everywhere he went.

Braavos was a large city, with a vibrant population and new travelers and traders continuously replacing the old, but even still, he grew bored of it.

News continued to filter in from Westeros, and Varys and his birds besides.

His aunt had disappeared. Her husband, the great Khal Drogo was dead and his khalasar fractured. Like as not, she had been taken to Vaes Dothrak, and her child killed or taken in the aftermath of Khal Drogo’s death.

It had been an emotional blow he had not expected. It was one more Targaryen gone, another family member he’d never get to meet. His little cousin as well…

Word from Westeros was that the traitor kings claimed Joffrey Baratheon to be a bastard by incest. The lion queen had bedded her own brother the Kingslayer to beget the Usurper’s supposed children… or so the stories went.

Stannis Baratheon had not let his younger brother claim the throne unopposed after all, and had quickly declared himself true king to the Iron Throne.

And then Balon was King of the Iron Islands once again.

The Watch had gone beyond the Wall in force.

All while Aegon sat on his hands, waiting for his army and his ships.

Jon seemed to be writing at all times, and every time a ship brought word from Illyrio, it was never what Aegon wanted to hear.

Then Renly Baratheon, the King in the Reach was dead. Supposedly, at the hand of one of his own Kingsguard, or the Queen Mother of the North, depending on the teller of tales. Stannis Baratheon had bewitched his fallen brother’s army with the help of a Red Priestess (this was particularly hilarious to Aegon; he’d known many a Red Priest and Priestess and found them pleasant folk) and set sail for Kings Landing. The King in the North traded blows with Tywin Lannister in the Riverlands and Westerlands.

Then Winterfell was razed! And Stannis was dead! Perishing in flames on the Blackwater. Or fleeing with his tail between his legs, or killed in single combat by Joffrey Baratheon himself.

It was only the ever-continuing recurrence of his dreams of the Wall that kept him from changing course and staking his claim while Westeros was in flames. Each time fresh tidings from Westeros reached Braavos, he felt his commitment to his journey north waver, but then he remembered that chill. He remembered Duck’s rare solemnity when recounting what he saw at _Pynto’s,_ and he maintained course.

But thus far, that course had led him nowhere.

-

All told, it was eight moons before Aegon was called into the room he and Jon shared for a discussion of “great import”. Lemore and Haldon were there already, and Duck filtered in shortly afterward. Jon sat at the writing desk he had specifically ordered brought into the room, a stack of letters in hand and sporting a particularly stoic expression.

When they had all settled into the chairs or against the beds, Jon began.

“The Golden Company will not come,” he said, voice even more grim than his words.

Aegon shot to his feet. “But Illyrio! T-The contract!” His hands shook and his thoughts whirled in his head, a jumble and a hurricane.

Jon held up the stack of letters and slammed it onto the desk. “I have sent letter after letter. I cajoled, I bribed, I reasoned, and nothing will sway that craven Strickland.”

“Illyrio said he would pay an extra half!” Aegon said.

“The offer was made, and still, that did not sway them. Not when they have that Spider spinning his web in their ear,” Jon spat.

Lemore appeared disquieted, her hands gripping her dress tightly. “Does he truly work against us, after everything?”

Crossing his arms, Jon answered, “Harry has not said as much directly, but I know the Spider’s work when I see it. The few letters Lord Varys has returned me have cautioned us against going north. ‘ _Leave the North to the North,’_ he says. _‘Why expend the Golden Company’s strength chasing ghosts when it would be better spent against the Lannisters,’_ and so on.”

“He knows the circumstances in the Seven Kingdoms better than most,” Haldon said, “if he were communicating with Strickland, it would not be surprising that he would heed his advice.”

“Homeless Harry worries that there is little to plunder so far north.”

Aegon grit his teeth. Plunder and rape was not why he wanted the Golden Company. _I won’t be the cause of more Elias, Rhaenys, and Pisswater Princes._ The Sack of Kings Landing had been brutal, and if he could help it, he would not let anything like it occur under his black and red banners.

“Without Drogo’s screamers, their chances are grim, he claims. And his godsdamned elephants. He worries that they would not survive so far north.” Jon threw a letter in frustration. “…Blackheart would not have let such petty concerns sway him,” Jon continued. “The Golden Company has grown soft under Strickland, they clamor for gold and women like common sellswords. They want only an easy fight. They forget Bittersteel, they forget their _roots._ ”

Duck visibly bristled at that comment. It had been long years since Jon had left the Golden Company, Miles “Blackheart” Toyne had still commanded as Lord-Captain in those days, but Duck had left the Golden Company only four years past, and had been sent by Strickland himself. “Can you blame them?” he said, his voice raised. “Why freeze to fight an enemy that may not be there at all, when they could wait for fighting to break out in the Disputed Lands? Where there is plunder, women, and fighting aplenty?”

Jon’s eyes clouded and his brow set. He seemed about ready to strike Duck when Haldon cut in. “What motives have you given the Company?” he asked Jon.

“I have told them of the deserted keeps of the Night’s Watch. The forces of the North are away in the South. If we were to claim those keeps now, we would have a staging ground to take the North out from behind their so-called King’s back. From there, concerns at the Wall would be easily taken care of.”

“But you haven’t told them of what Duck saw,” Aegon said, voice low, “or my dreams?” Jon had discussed the matter with him. It was profoundly unlikely that the Golden Company would cross the Narrow Sea to fight… what? An army of dead men? A great world ending cold? Aegon knew not what they would find there, he knew only that it needed fighting against. All they had was the word of a lowborn sellsword, though a knight Duck may be. The so-called strategy of starting the conquest in the North rather than the south was a truly necessary deception.

That they wouldn’t even fight to claim the North spoke volumes on how they might have taken Aegon’s genuine intent.

“No,” Jon said. “Only Strickland should know of your existence, and even he I would not have told of your dreams. The high officers of the Golden Company know that there is a plot to take Westeros in place, but they must have assumed the campaign closer to Kings Landing. Beginning in the North would be…”

“Unprecedented,” Haldon finished.

“Magister Illyrio may be playing us false as well,” Aegon said. “He may claim he offered the Golden Company greater pay, but then advise Harry Strickland to refuse as means to divert us from this course.”

In fact, it was possible even that they _all_ were playing him false, a tiny, dark part of himself said. Placating him, assuring him that they believed and shared in his convictions, all while they conspired to hold him in place while Varys and Illyrio moved their pieces about the Cyvassse board.

He shook his head. _No_ , he thought. He would not believe such poison. That was the route that had led his grandfather to madness and death.

“Aye, that’s possible,” Duck said. Duck had had little contact with Illyrio, and so knew him primarily by reputation. “The habit of merchants is not honesty. Liars and thieves, the lot of them.”

They sat in silence then.

Jon had remained confident that the Golden Company would follow them north, even though negotiations had clearly dragged on. To have nothing to show in exchange for so many moons was disheartening. Aegon trusted in Jon, his father in all but blood and Hand in all but name, and he knew that despite his many lessons and learnings, he was inexperienced in the politicking a task such as courting the Golden Company would have required.

But Jon could not do it.

_So, what now?_

“What is a conqueror without his army!” Aegon roared. He would have thrown something were there anything within reach. Then he fell back onto the bed, blue strands clenched between his fingers and head in his hands.  His breathing slowed.

It was Lemore who finally spoke, voice soft. “Your dreams have grown more common, haven’t they?” She was ever the one he confided such matters to.

“Yes,” he replied, removing his hands. He sat up straighter, and grasped his knees instead, clenching hard. “Most mornings, I awake cold, no matter how high the fire is kept, no matter the blankets I wear… Lately, I’ve fallen more than flown. And, always, _always,_ I see those eyes.”

Duck drummed his fingers on his legs. Lemore sat quietly, eyes downcast. Jon began to leaf through the stack of letters again. Haldon stroked his chin.

“Mayhaps they the Golden Company wouldn’t believe a duck…” Haldon began.

Duck picked it up, “…But they may believe a dragon.”

Jon looked up from his letters, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you propose?”

“We go to the Wall, assess the truth of the matter, and then petition the Golden Company again should Aegon’s dreams prove to be truth,” the Halfmaester said.

It was odd to hear Haldon suggest a course of action so seemingly daring, as he was one of the voices of reason in the party. It stirred something within Aegon. While the idea of fleeing to Westeros on his own had appealed to him some, he truly believed he would have had an army at his back given enough time. He was under no delusions that one man could fight against whatever it was that slept beyond the Wall.

But now that the prospect of an army had been taken from him, the appeal to sally forth without it returned.

“Are you _ill,_ Haldon?” Jon accused, “The Night’s Watch is a band of rapers, poachers, and cutpurses! You would trust them to not murder Aegon in his sleep? Or worse?”

“Aemon wrote back to you, did he not?” Aegon said, jumping to Haldon’s defense, “We’ve amassed quite a store of goods: quality steel, furs, wool, even timber. Buy up some salted meats and flour and before we take ship and it would replenish their stores considerably! We come to the Wall bearing gifts, with the promise of even greater aid in the future, and we should be honored guests!”

“But it’s _madness_.” Jon turned to Lemore, “Lady Lemore, tell–”

“Would the Golden Company refuse _me_ , if I came to them, telling them that I witnessed dead men walking and a terror only they might put down?” Aegon interrupted.

 _Or I might simply lie_ , he thought, _and claim that I saw such things to Strickland_.

…No, he could never do that. What good was the word of a king who would lie in such a manner?

Jon looked thoughtful, but still indignant. “… Harry Strickland is a craven copper counter. Like as not, the entire effort to seat you on the Iron Throne is of too much risk for him. Blackheart would have answered your call, no matter the circumstances.”

“But his officers,” Duck said, “Many of them are still from Blackheart’s day...”

Aegon stood up then, back straight. “I will sit by no longer, Jon,” he said, his voice clear of doubt, “I have waited long enough. We tried it your way, and now we shall try it mine. Unless you wish to chain me, I will go to the Wall with or without you.”

_I am a man grown, and rightful king besides._

Jon rose too, but he was no longer taller than Aegon. Gone were the days he would be cowed by Jon’s physical presence alone. His mouth set and eyes firm, Jon appeared ready to argue. But what escaped his taut lips was, “Very well.”

“Very well?” Aegon asked, almost not believing that it could be so easy.

“Very well,” Jon confirmed. “I told you we would spend a time in Braavos. It has been a time, and I am a man of my word.”

He turned to Haldon. “Halfmaester, find us a suitable ship.” Then Lemore, “Lady Lemore, suitable foodstuffs for the Watch are needed. Take Aegon, he knows these canals better than most, and he must practice his Braavosi.”

“And me?” Duck asked.

Jon shrugged. “Continue as usual, and be prepared to fill that ship’s hold. We have much to carry.”

Aegon smiled.

-

It took only a few days to find a suitable ship, despite the unpopularity of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea as a destination. The fact that the creaky old vessel bore the name _Seadragon_ felt most propitious to Aegon. Another day of loading every last crate of weapons, clothing, materials, and food (Lemore and Aegon had found a merchant willing to part with a considerable amount of food easily enough). Whether or not Illyrio truly put stock in Aegon’s claims of prophetic dreams, he had sent a profound amount of gold along to them nonetheless.

Of course, “profound” to Aegon was seemingly coppers to Illyrio.

In less than a week from their decision, they were again soaring across open water. Aegon felt the ocean breeze catching his dyed blue hair, he had not had it trimmed in some time, so it whipped around quite spectacularly. He closed his eyes and relished the feeling of truly moving. He had atrophied in Braavos, but again he was living, moving.

Aegon hoped the seas played nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how long I'll be able to keep this pace, but I'll try my best. This was meant to be a short chapter, but it ended up being longer than the last one. Woops. I made the decision to simply have time pass off screen. I didn't want this to be one of those stories that spends eons on set up, otherwise it probably would have been 50,000 words of Aegon dicking around in Braavos, OR if he sailed to Westeros straight out, 50,000 words of Aegon dicking around at the Wall waiting for the Night's Watch to come back from the Fist. In canon, single POVs routinely skip fair amounts of time between chapters, so hopefully it's not too jarring.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Visions in Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis broods

_Chapter V: Visions in Flame_

Stannis Baratheon remembered the day he ceased to believe in the gods of his fathers all too clearly. His belief had shattered with the _Windproud_ in the waters of Shipbreaker Bay. All he received in exchange for the death of his parents and the shaking of his very world was a mad fool and duties beyond his years; for _he_ had been the Lord of Storm’s End in all but name while Robert cavorted in the Eyrie.

The Seven-faced God the septons and septas prattled on about would never have permitted such an exchange. This was no just god. He saw no hint of the Mother’s mercy. Not one whit of the wisdom of the Crone. No Father’s justice, and no Warrior’s strength. No pure Maiden or Smith’s ingenuity. He had seen only the Stranger’s death as he gazed out from the top of Storm’s End’s parapets, clutching Robert’s already large hand as he bawled like an infant.

Dozens had died. Lord Steffon Baratheon and Lady Cassana Estermont had perished within sight of their children. And all the gods had seen fit to offer for this great expense was a thrice damned _fool_.

There were no gods, he had known that even then. His tears had dried and his soul had withered, and he knew. There was no Seven, no great God above.

Stannis had spent his life absolutely certain of this fact.

Until _she_ came.

The red priestess, with her foreign god and her visions by fire.

_You are the prince that was promised_ , she’d said, _Azor Ahai reborn, come again to put an end to the darkness for all time._

He had believed her not, but his lady wife had, and with great vigor.

Robert had been king then, though, and he had a son and heir (good or strong though, could never be words that Stannis would describe Joffrey as). But then the pieces had begun to slide into place, like a great puzzle upon which rested the fate of a kingdom. Ser Jaime the Kingslayer’s sly smiles and overlong looks, the queen’s spiteful glances and barely hidden scorn, her children’s features so unlike those of the boy at Storm’s End.

And then seemingly before Stannis had even had the time to react, Jon Arryn was dead. To his great shame, he had fled for fear of his life. He was his brother’s heir then, and he knew there would be strife when the Lannister woman’s treachery was revealed. He began to call his banners, grounding and gathering together every ship that laid anchor at Dragonstone. There would be war.

_The cold comes_ , the red priestess had said, _Can you feel it? Only you might forestall it._

But Robert would have remarried, surely. Renly thought Stannis a fool, but he had known of his plotting with the Tyrells, Others take them. Renly had not known of the abominations called Princes and Princess then, but he would have had a rose sit the Iron Throne with or without them. Still, Stannis would have taken this. It was Robert’s right to take a queen as he willed it, it was his duty to provide the realm with an heir. He was virile, if he was nothing else. Renly would have his rose on the throne, one way or another, and Stannis would have born it.

Then His Grace King Robert was dead, with no trueborn issue to take up the realm he left behind.

_Your Grace_ , she’d whispered, _through Rh’llor you will come into your throne, the true king for all to see. I have seen it._

She showed him her power then.

_False gods corrupt this land. They lurk in your godswood and in your sept. They are servants of the Great Other, leading your people astray._

So he had stood by while they burned. Charcoal and ash and smoke they became, while the red priestess proclaimed him Azor Ahai for all to see. The Warrior of Light. The Son of Fire. He pulled the burning sword from the smoking corpse of what pious souls called the Mother (who had never given him her Mercy) and held it aloft, _Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes_ , she had proclaimed. He had left behind a charred useless thing, he knew that. And his bannermen looked to him in derision, in fear, or in grim acceptance.

Selyse had even come to him then, in her fervor. She lay with him, eager to give him the son he had always yearned for. She had not given him a son, but she had given him the red priestess from the land-by-the-shadow.

For _she_ gave him an army; the army that was his by rights, that had denied him for his brother Renly, as so many had. _She_ gave him Storm’s End, that Robert had taken from him in his fury, that was the only place he had ever considered home. She’d given it all. When the time came to claim the throne that was his, she had come.

_We will win your throne Your Grace,_ she had proclaimed _, one kingdom under one god and one_ king _._

But he had not heeded her. Everything she had promised had come to pass, but on the eve of his ascendancy, he had faltered. He would not have had it said that he had won his throne by mischief, or that he had needed a _woman_ to fight his battles. Stannis had paid the price for his folly. His fleet was gone. His army all but scattered. His throne firmly held by an abomination.

What might have occurred instead had she been at his side at the Blackwater? Fire was her domain. Could she have turned the wildfire against the enemy? Could she have foreseen the danger? Would they have had warning of the Tyrell host?

The questions and possibilities gnawed at him, tearing him up from the inside. He ground his teeth.

Before, he had brooded over the great Painted Table of Aegon the Conqueror. The dragonlord had planned his conquest from the seat Stannis himself had sat upon. Some part of him, the fanciful boy he had been for an instant in his early childhood, perhaps, had felt a certain pride, a kinship. The Dragon Kings were gone, yes, but he would follow in their footsteps, and claim his kingdom at the same table Aegon himself had once used to forge seven kingdoms into one.

Now, he brooded before the fire. He had not followed in the footsteps of Aegon the Conqueror, but Aegon the Uncrowned. His hopes had been dashed at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush rather than above the God’s Eye, but the throne eluded him as it once had the son of Aenys.

Stannis clutched at the sword sheathed at his hip. _Lightbringer_ , she had called it. The same name as the sword of legend. The same name as the charred wreck he had left plunged on the beaches of Dragonstone. He unsheathed it then, the metal sliding softly against the fur that lined the inside of the scabbard. It was a fine blade, of castle forged steel. It was simple in its construction, but fine, and fit for a king he’d thought.

But above all else, the blade _shone_. Red, gold, orange, yellow. Every color that found its birth in fire could be seen shining from the blade of _Lightbringer._ The large room was brighter for the drawing of the blade, and he found that his eyes even stung slightly to look upon it.

He knew the stories though, he knew that this was no true blade of fire. This was not the Red Sword of Heroes. He held his left hand against the blade, finding it as cold as any steel had ever been. Where there was no heat, there could be no fire, he knew this.

Still, the blade shone. If nothing else, it was proof of the red priestess’s power. In all his years he had never seen a septon perform such a “trick”.

Stannis held the sword high, bathing in its great light.

_Lightbringer_ of legend his blade may not be, _his_ Lightbringer would serve.

He sheathed the blade, and the room was darker for it. He shivered slightly despite himself.

His gaze returned to the fire.

The flames danced in the brazier the red priestess had requested be placed in the room. It was another reminder of her presence, of the power she bore. The flames were red, as her god was. Then yellow, as the banner of his fathers. Orange, as Bryce Caron had been before his death upon the shores of the Blackwater. Orange then yellow then red then back. He felt the heat on his face. It was pleasant, as few things were in this castle.

_An unpleasant castle for an unpleasant man_ , some man had said, of this he had no doubt.

He lost himself in those flames. Flames had not felled his parents, that had been the ocean and the sky. The gods that they believed protected them had failed, and they perished beneath the waves.

Flames had lost him the Blackwater, he knew, but was it not justice? The red priestess had given him everything, and yet when the time had come for the Iron Throne to be his, he had forsaken her and her fiery god. And so his greatest failure was writ in flames and burning hulls. He saw wood crackle before him, spitting sparks as it broke apart in the brazier. Burning, burning.

A better man than Imry Florent would have seen the Lannister ploy coming, would not have charged headlong into the mouth of the Rush. Ser Davos would have seen it. But his men would not have had it, for Davos was born low and the Florents were among the most puissant of his banners. Due must needs be paid, and so Imry Florent was his admiral. And so his fleet went up in flames. Flame that shone like terrible emeralds then. Green, as Renly’s armor had been.

Red flames now. Then orange and yellow. Then red.

Davos was gone now, and four of his sons too, if the counts were correct. Devan stood loyally outside the door he knew, ready with the guards to turn away any callers. Loyal, as Davos and his sons had been as Imry Florent turned his fleet into cinders.

If he had been like Robert, then he too would have perished at the Blackwater. Always at the front he had been, flying into a battle rage so fierce, that “Demon” was almost not enough to describe it. His men had loved him for it. Their lord and then king fighting in the muck with them, taking wounds as any common man would. A god and a demon in the armor of house Baratheon. A warrior where Stannis was a commander.

None spoke of his command as they spoke of Robert and his warhammer. He had fought from the back, as he always had, and for that he had survived the wildfire. For that, he was able to retreat when Tywin Lannister and the Tyrell host arrived, and was not captured or killed as so many others had been. For that, his kingdom would never love him. It was not the stuff of songs.

Had he been in the van, holding Lightbringer high, might their morale have held? Could Tywin Lannister have been held at bay? Would his kingdom love him then, as they had Robert?

Red then yellow then orange. The flames whirled this way and that, casting great shadows about the painted table.

Robert had always wanted to be loved, and for that he met his demise at the end of a boar. His kingdom was in tatters, and Stannis was left to pick up the pieces, to fix the mess he left behind. And Renly–

Yellow then orange then red.

Red.

Stannis saw himself then, a great fiery crown about his temples. It was a true fire, this crown. It was not the imitation wrought in gold his wife and her priestess had bestowed upon him. He was all in black with a great cloak of gold at his back. The fire leapt and danced at his brow. It should have burned, but it didn’t. Antlers, large and fierce grew from the roaring crown. He was a terrible sight to behold, this king in fire.

The king withdrew his sword from his scabbard, and Stannis saw that it was no sword at all. It was a hilt without a blade.

Until it wasn’t. A blade came to life suddenly, emerging from the hilt in a sickening stream of fire. He pointed the sword skyward then. Fire from his crown and antlers mingling with the blaze of the blade.

Stannis heard a roaring then, but if it was the fire or something else he could not make out.

Two vast stone pillars fell to either side of the blazing king.

Shadows cast by the king danced against them, and without warning he saw that they were not pillars at all, but limbs. He saw a claw at the end of them, and he saw veins. Fire seemed to ripple through the veins of the great limbs. Wings, he realized. They connected to a long and sinewy body, its scales shining colorlessly in the king’s light.

His breath caught–it was a dragon. A boundless beast of fire made flesh.

Six eyes shone with predatory light.

_The dragon had three heads._

The king’s crown erupted then, and fire fell from his brow, rippling down the side of his face and onto his neck and scorching the skin wherever it went.

The dragon took flight somehow, its immense size impeding its flight little.

The king pointed the sword at Stannis, its flames leaping out at him, beckoning him.

For an instant, he saw snow–

“Your Grace,” a high voice called from beyond the door. It was Devan.

The dragon and the king with his terrible crown were gone, the snow scattered.

“The Lady Melisandre begs pardon,” Devan said, voice unsure.

Stannis waited.

“She requests an audience.”

Stannis took a deep breath and finally tore his gaze from the fire. “Send her in, Devan,”

The oaken doors groaned open, and Lady Melisandre strode into the Chamber of the Painted Table, purpose and power evident in every long-legged step. Before the doors clattered shut, he saw a glimpse of his squire staring at the red priestess with something approaching awe.

She was clad in a gown of her usual sort. Red silks and velvets and baring more cleavage than was necessary for a woman as pious as she. Her hair glimmered like burnished copper in the firelight, her red eyes shining like the ruby she wore at her throat. Stannis was at times still struck by her beauty.

Though only for an instant; he was not Robert.

“Your Grace,” she said, bowing. When she stood, she caught his eyes and smiled, her red lips curving. “Are you well?”

Stannis broke from her and stared over the Painted Table. He ground his teeth. “Well? I plan war with less than two thousand men. If that is well, then I would not see unwell.” He had planned nothing, in truth. Men whispered of his “brooding”, he knew, but no word fit it quite so well as that, and so it was. He had brooded.

Melisandre stepped closer. “It is most dark before the dawn, yes, but the dawn shall rise all the same, Your Grace,” she said, her deep voice melodious, “for you are Azor Ahai, the beloved of Rh’llor, and you shall make it so.”

Stannis slammed his hands on the Painted Table, the three hundred years of varnish smooth beneath his palms. “I need an army, not words,” he growled. “I am no king if I cannot take my throne. What good is a king with no army?”

She said nothing.

“Could you have stopped the wildfire?” He asked.

She smiled again then. “If Rh’llor willed it. Fire is his, no matter the color.”

A non-answer.

At times, he still doubted her power. A lifetime of skepticism had not made a man that believed easily out of the dour boy he had started as. The way she spoke at times, her evasiveness, her promises of great reward when none had ever been dealt him. It warred with the magics he had born witness to. Especially…

“I looked into the flames,” he said, unsteady despite himself. _It was a waking nightmare, like as not._ She looked at him probingly, and he looked aside so as to lose her gaze. “In the fire, I saw... _images_ , I suppose. Images that could not be.”

Lady Melisandre didn’t immediately reply, so he looked back to her.

She smiled widely at him, her full lips curving with happiness, her eyes shining. The red priestess smiled routinely, but hers was a smile filled with knowing, often condescending knowledge. This was nothing of the sort. It was the smile of a maiden; it was a smile of genuine joy.

It was a smile Selyse had never rewarded him with, nor he her. Not even when she had placed Shireen in his arms on the morn of her birth.

“The Lord of Light’s visions are rarely simple to read, Your Grace,” she said, almost breathless. “But always, they are true.”

_A burning crown and sword. A three headed dragon. Snow,_ he thought, frowning.

Her smile faltered. “Your Grace?”

Stannis was no fool, the imagery was plain enough and none of what he had seen in the fire could be described as a good omen to his eyes. If any part of it was true, then… He shook his head. “What tidings do you bring that you sought me out, my lady?” Stannis said instead, ignoring her implied question and staring back to the fire.

Melisandre straightened, her joy vanishing as if it had never been. She was nearly as tall as Selyse, but Stannis was closer to six and a half feet than not, so still he towered over her. “Your onion knight lives,” she said, her voice neutral.

He jerked his head to her, not having expected such a thing in the least. It had been weeks since the Blackwater, that he had survived was a miracle... His jaw set, and his brow furrowed. It was good news, yes, but… “How do you know such a thing?”

“Because he seeks to kill me,” Lady Melisandre said, as if it were of no concern. “The flames are ever clear when my life is in peril.”

His jaw set harder. His teeth ground. Of course. “This will not be; have Ser Axell apprehend him before he enters the keep,” Stannis replied, his tone a forced cool. Beneath, his fury burned hot.

She bowed. “Your Grace, your concern is appreciated,” she said, the slightest bit of mischief tugging at her lips. “I will let no harm come to him,” she continued, “Ser Davos still has a role he must needs serve.”

Lady Melisandre stepped yet closer to him. She placed a soft hand on the small of his back and smiled the same winsome smile. “As I do,” she said, her red eyes dancing in the firelight.

Stannis Baratheon did not move away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Team Stannis chapter woo! Next up will be Shireen, then back to Team Aegon.


	6. Stone Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen is scared of dragons but likes history

_Chapter VI: Stone Dragons_

Shireen hated the gargoyles perched all over the castle. She loved the stories of dragons and princes and princesses and everything else that came from this island and its castles, but the grotesque stone creations that littered the walls and battlements of Dragonstone haunted her every step. She had nightmares of those dragons, more often than not. She dreamt of a fire coming alive within the stone beasts, and then them beginning to move.

Her worst dreams had come when her father was gone, when he’d left to win his throne. “Hold Dragonstone,” he’d said, “when next we meet, it will be in the Red Keep.” She had hugged him fiercely then, and he had jerkingly patted her shoulder until mother called her away. Only, he came back. It was several days before she had managed to catch sight of him though, and it was not for more than instant. Father never lied… but he had come back to Dragonstone.

So many others hadn’t come back, and mother had been glad to see that the Onion Knight was one of those men. Handsome Lord Velaryon, crotchety Lord Celtigar, swaggering Aurane Waters (who had been kind, in his own way), fierce Lord Caron, and countless others. She didn’t know them _all_ , but mother had been diligent in her instruction. She was her father’s heir, and she had to know his bannermen.

Devan had returned though, and for that she was glad. He was one of her father’s squires, and he approved of him. Maybe the king saw in him the son her mother had never given him. She liked Devan well enough; he was always kind and courteous, and was as loyal to her father as his own had been.

Cousin Edric had made it easier than it might have been. He was two old years older than her, but they were still close. Mother disapproved of him, almost as much as he she did Patchface, but that was because he was a bastard, not because he was a fool or mad.  Edric was brusque and very rowdy, but she liked him. He had her ears and her hair, and he laughed loudly and often.

He had bragged about being the king’s son, but she was the current king’s daughter so she made sure he knew that too.

Pylos clapped his hands suddenly, and she was shaken from her thoughts with a girlish squeak. Her parchment was blank. Edric smirked at her from the next seat. His parchment bore some scratchings, but she knew that he didn’t have the answer either. Despite his years on her, she was the more intellectual of the two. Devan was somewhat better than Edric, and he learned with them most days, but he had been called away.

“Princess,” Maester Pylos said gently, “You must remain focused. When you run your household, it will be of great importance that you know your sums. If you are to rule after His Grace, then it is only that much more important.”

Shireen frowned. _I know that,_ she thought morosely, _I only slept poorly yesterday._ She had dreamt of a dragon again. Great and terrible and three-headed. It wanted to eat her.

Pylos strode to Edric’s side of the large desk the two of them shared. He snatched Edric’s parchment, ignoring his indignant squawk, and studied what the boy had written. Pylos’s kind face was marred with disappointment and he shook his head.

“Edric, what was Jurne teaching you at Storm’s End?” he asked, exasperated.

Edric grinned. “He _tried_ to teach me, I simply didn’t want to be taught!” He laughed loudly, as if that was something he should be proud of.

Shireen smiled despite herself. Lessons were important, but when Edric laughed it was hard not to share in his joy. Poor Uncle Renly had always been permissive, so if Edric wanted to run about and play knights at all times of the day, Renly surely let him. It was no wonder he was so wild.

“You may not run a household, but you may captain a household’s guard, or serve as castellan one day,” Pylos said. What he didn’t say was clear to Shireen, _Because you are a bastard._ “No lord worth his land desires a lackwit castellan,” he finished.

“Fine then! Explain it again, I’ll get it this time.” Edric rose to challenges, that was another trait that made her cousin so fun to spend time with. If Shireen said _‘I bet you couldn’t climb that tree,’_ he would reply _‘Of course I could!’_ and try his hardest. She had never had that sort of relationship before, not even with Patchface.

She and cousin Myrcella had shared many interests, and got along very well, but father said she should not think of her as a cousin any longer.  Edric was her cousin though, without a doubt, and neither father nor mother could take that from her.

Shireen quickly worked through the problem when Pylos introduced it again, and when she showed him her answer, she was rewarded with his serene smile. Maester Pylos was very nice, but she still found herself missing Cressen, even after all these months since he choked. He had been very old, she knew, and frail, but he’d still had some years in him left he’d always said. His death at that feast had left her inconsolable for days when she found out. Pylos had been on Dragonstone even before Cressen’s death, but Cressen had taught her personally. It was a change that had taken her considerable time to become accustomed to.

While she was proficient in sums, Shireen’s true passions were stories and history. She had taken to books early, about as soon as she could make out the letters. At first, she mostly admired the pictures; the knights and their princesses, and the dragons and the battles. But, soon enough, she had improved, and could begin to read in earnest.

There was so much sadness in the world; so much war, death, and tragedy. It made her feel better, at times (which almost made her feel worse in a way). She knew she would never be a fair princess, that people would never look on her with awe; her grayscale saw to that. But through history, she knew that others had had it far worse, and many had persevered through terrible circumstances.

Alysanne quarreled with her own parents over her love for Jaehaerys, but went on to become one of the best queens the Seven Kingdoms ever saw. The thought of the beautiful Queen Alsyanne on her progresses through the kingdoms atop Silverwing, was one that made her shiver with delight. And there was Orys Baratheon, shielding Argella Durrendon from the eyes of those who had stripped her nude and offered her up in surrender. He wrapped her in his cloak and took her to wife, and through their union, Shireen’s own line came to be. He had taken her words and her sigil as his own, and through them, the Storm Kings of old lived on.

But for every happy ending, there were many that were not. The story of what some called the “Dance of the Dragons”, but others called “The Dying of the Dragons” was long and terrible, and had been one of Shireen’s greatest challenges. The betrayals and murders and death had been almost too much for her.

She tried to keep in mind the good stories: the Alysannes and Argellas, and not the bad ones like Rhaenyra.

Edric finally produced the correct answer, but it had taken him twice as long as it had her. He roared in triumph nonetheless, which caused Pylos to shake his head and release an exasperated breath.

“I suppose that is well enough for today,” Pylos said when Edric settled down. “You two run along and play, now. I have other tasks to attend to.” He gathered up their parchments and quills and sent them away with a shooing motion. It had been a relatively short lesson today, but she did not mind.

Shireen laughed and leaped out of her seat. It was somewhat unladylike, but Pylos and Cressen before him forgave her when she lapsed. Edric enjoyed it when she threw aside propriety. Her cousin was already running ahead, so she had to hike up her skirts some to catch up. A stray raven quorked from the corner of the room as they exited through the aged wooden door.

The Sea Dragon Tower was tall and winding, and like many things on Dragonstone, carved in the shape of a great dragon. Unlike many of them, this one was serene, looking out to the sea with seeming longing. Shireen found the larger dragons to be somewhat less scary than the smaller ones throughout the castle. Aerea had mastered Balerion after all, so too could she master the immense stone dragons of Dragonstone.

She chased him down the turnpike stairs giggling and puffing. Others may have found such stairs perilous, but she had been scaling steps such as these since she had first walked. But where she firmly trounced her cousin in studies, Edric had her clearly outclassed in athletics, even disregarding the limitations of skirts. He was far ahead of her, and she chased as if she were right on his tail. She knew where he was going, in any case.

Soon enough, they were sprinting through the Stone Drum, passing stone faced men-at-arms and strutting queen’s men with their sewn-on hearts of Rh’llor. None of them would dare stop the Princess and her companion though, except mother, father, or perhaps her uncles of Florent. Hoping to include Devan in their games, they passed the looming doorway of the Chamber of the Painted Table, but saw that it was guarded by two of her father’s men alone; the king’s squire was nowhere to be seen.

She rounded a corner and nearly smacked straight into Edric’s back. “Why did y– ” she exclaimed, before noticing what had blocked her cousin.

Ser Richard Horpe stood before the two of them, dressed in plate even at rest on Dragonstone. His pockmarked face and hard eyes were a threatening sight to Shireen, even as she knew that one did not choose their face. He bowed when he made eye contact with Shireen, “Princess,” he said courteously (if stiffly). “Your mother requests your presence, she asks that you wait in your chambers.” He looked down to Edric, but said nothing.

She grabbed at her cousin’s hand and shook it. “I’ll meet you in Aegon’s Garden later,” she said, offering a smile. “Go hit someone with a sword!”

Edric rarely required much prodding when it came to violence, and so with a smile, a wave, and a “Until later, Princess!” he was off to the training yard.

Ser Richard held out an arm. “Would you like an escort, my lady?”

She shook her head. “Thank you Ser, but I know the way,” she replied. Shireen curtsied to the hard knight, who nodded in deference, and then she was off toward her chambers on the lower levels of the Stone Drum. Dragonstone was something of a winding castle, especially compared to the relatively simple construction of the main body of the Red Keep, but she had spent most of her life in the Valyrian stronghold, so it was of little concern for her to navigate.

She passed yet more men-at-arms as she made her way through the halls and past the countless gargoyles, hellhounds, manticores, and dragons. There were less people about than there had been before the battle, she knew. The bustle of men in armor and the loud discussion of battle plans had made Dragonstone a livelier place. It had made it easier for her to escape her nightmares. But now it was quiet again, and so she found herself running rather than walking.

 _What does mother want?_ She thought, _Is it about Uncle Imry?_ Shireen had not known him well, but he was her mother’s brother, and mother had been very distraught at his death on the Blackwater, and had retreated even further into the embrace of the red woman and her fires. Shireen had never had a brother, so she didn’t know how she would react to losing one.

If she lost Edric, or even Patches, she would be sad though, she knew. Very sad.

A queen’s man waited outside the gaping dragon’s maw that was the entrance to her chambers. In some cruel twist of Valyrian fate, the stone about the door to her room had been shaped into a fierce dragon’s mouth; the door seemingly leading into the beast’s throat. The ancient Valyrian stonemasons probably thought it harmless fun, as they had in their creation of the dragonshapes throughout the rest of the castle, but Shireen found that she didn’t like it much. Every night she had to be eaten by a dragon in order to go to bed.

 _“Mayhaps naming the dragon should make it a friendlier face,”_ her mother had told her once, when she had cried at the sight of it during a terrible thunderstorm. Thus it had become Silverwing, in honor of Good Queen Alysanne’s beautiful companion. Her father had grimaced when she told him of it and had asked why she had not chosen a more Baratheon sounding name.  

 _“Because Alysanne is my favorite,”_ she’d told him brightly. And besides, according to Pylos, Orys Baratheon himself was a Targaryen bastard, and her own great grandmother had been a Targaryen.

When she approached Silverwing’s maw, Ser Patrek bowed to her. “Princess,” he said. Patrek of King’s Mountain was a large, clean shaven man. He had a haughtiness about him, almost like Edric, but he was not quite so kind as her cousin. Still, he was always courteous. His cloth-of-silver surcoat glimmered, even in the darkness of the hall, but it was the fiery heart of Rh’llor that stood out most.

He opened the door for her; she entered.

The first thing she noticed was that the fire had been kept burning high. Dalla was dutiful in keeping her hearth high, even when Shireen intended to spend her day in the Maester’s Library or Aegon’s Garden. She knew that her mother liked to keep the fire particularly roaring though, ever since the red woman had come to Dragonstone. In truth, Shireen did not mind it. Dragonstone was a dark place and the fires made it brighter, which she appreciated.

Two chairs had been pulled in front of the fire: one highbacked and austere, and one shorter and soft.

Her words of greeting to her mother caught in her throat as the figure stood and revealed herself. It was the Lady Melisandre, not the Lady of Dragonstone. “Lady Melisandre,” she said, unsure.

The red priestess was tall and beautiful, with creamy white skin and long hair that flowed like fire.  She stood out starkly against the form of her mother at their nightfires, with her skinny frame and plain looks. She stood out even more against Shireen.

“Princess,” she replied in a soothing tone, her voice deep and accented. “Might you sit by the fire with me for a time?” The red priestess gestured to the smaller chair, her long dagged sleeve near touching the floor.

Shireen nodded, but took slow steps toward the chair. She had never spent much time alone with the Lady Melisandre, almost always in the company of her mother as well if at all. She was threatening even as she smiled, scary in a way that the grotesques littered throughout the castle were not. She settled into the soft chair as the red priestess sat gracefully back into the larger chair.

She had chosen her preferred chair at the least. Shireen preferred to read in the Maester’s chambers of library, but when she did choose to spend time in her chambers, this was the chair she reclined in. She looked to the beautiful woman beside her, but received only a smile in return.

Melisandre stared into the fire for a time then. Enough time passed that Shireen found her gaze drawn to the crackling hearth as well. Mercifully, it was not carved into the shape of a dragon.

Finally, the deep voice of the red woman broke above the pleasant hum of the fire. “Your day has been pleasant, Princess?”

Shireen nodded, but found herself struggling to find appropriate words. “After I broke my fast, I… spent the morning with Maester Pylos, learning sums with Edric and Devan… But Devan was called away…” The fire hissed as a log cracked. “I was to play with Edric at Aegon’s Garden, but Ser Richard called me here.” She didn’t say that she had been led to believe her mother would be waiting for her.

“Queen Selyse asked that I talk with you,” Lady Melisandre replied, her eyes never leaving the fire. “I will not hold you long, frolic in the Conqueror’s wood you shall.” The red priestess smiled at that, letting the fire do some talking for a time. “Your cousin… He is King Robert’s son, you know this?” she asked.

“Yes,” Shireen said, “He’s a bastard, but I know his mother is a Florent like my own.”

“Do you like him?”

Shireen turned toward the priestess, but saw that the fire still held her gaze. “I do,” she said, “We have fun, and… he doesn’t care about my… my grayscale.”

She tried not to think too much about her grayscale. She had been marked with it for as long as she could remember, but always it was what people noticed first about her. Edric had simply asked, _“What’s wrong with your face?”_ and when she explained, had replied, _“I’ll have my own scars someday, from fighting! You just have a head start!”_

“Some might say that his claim to the throne is greater than your own,” Lady Melisandre said, “for he is a king’s son, while you are a daughter.”

Shireen’s brow furrowed. She didn’t even know if she wanted the throne. Father had never been a joyous man, but he had become only more solemn after the death of King Robert, and after the battle… But she had no brother, and unless her mother could give her father one, it would be her duty to sit the throne after her father. She had not asked for it, but both of her parents had impressed upon her the importance of duty. Neglecting it brought only ruin, they said.

“But your father must win his rightful throne first,” she continued. “He has been dealt a grievous blow, and he knows not the path forward.” The red priestess finally turned to Shireen, her red eyes boring into her own blues. “If you could help your father, would you, Princess?”

Her reply was quick. “Of course! How might I?”

Lady Melisandre turned back to the blaze, raising a long graceful hand to the hearth. “I know you have not welcomed to the Lord of Light into your heart, as your mother the queen has,” she said.

“Would that help my father, truly?” Shireen asked.

The red priestess withdrew her hand. “I know not,” she said. “His Grace, the king, struggles with his destiny. He is Azor Ahai come again, but still, he doubts.”

Azor Ahai…

“And yet, Rh’llor has graced him with visions all the same. Your father looked into the fire and he _saw,_ Princess, as I do.” Lady Melisandre stood up suddenly, drawing closer to the fire reverently. She stared deeply into the conflagration. “Men whisper that I bewitched your mother and father, but I did not… I merely showed them the Lord’s light.” She turned and beckoned to Shireen.

Shireen felt a chill crawl up her back. Still, she stood up, and took careful steps forward. The red woman grasped her hand and she shivered; her skin was warm.

“I would not force you to believe,” she said solemnly. “But I would ask that you look into the fires, Princess. Your father _sees_ , and his king’s blood flows through your veins, my lady. If Rh’llor has granted him the sight, then perhaps he has granted it to you as well.” She clenched Shireen’s hand tightly in her own, then released it.

“I only ask that you look,” she said imploringly, red eyes piercing her soul. “Look, and _heed_.”

She stepped away from the fire then and bowed deeply. “Now I bid you good day, Princess.” In an instant, Shireen was alone in her room, still standing in front of the fire, puzzled more than anything.

Would looking into the fire help father? Was that what she had meant? _What did father see?_ Father was not prone to dreams and nightmares, as she was (or so mother had said), so if he saw something in the fire, it would have to be true, would it not?

Shireen had not followed her mother into the faith of Rh’llor. The great nightfires and foreign songs had scared Shireen some, but that was not what kept her from following her mother. She had liked the Seven, and the old sept too. And now both were gone. Septon Barre had been kind, but he was sent away. Maester Cressen hadn’t liked Lady Melisandre either, she could tell.

 _“You will come to Rh’llor in your own time,”_ her mother had insisted, but Shireen didn’t know that for sure. She had liked what she had, why change?

But if it could help father, she supposed she could look into the fire for a time, at least.

She settled back into her chair, relishing the feeling of its softness. The wood in the hearth crackled and popped. The fire danced, and she found herself drawn to it.

_Look and heed._

Had father heeded what he’d seen? When had he seen it? Was that why Devan was called away, maybe?

Shireen wondered what her cousin was doing. He was probably beating up on some cook’s boy, or some unlucky squire; for he was big and strong for his age. It had been a relatively short lesson with Pylos today, so there was still plenty of daylight left for their games. Maybe Devan would be done with what he had to do too.

And Patches! He was probably in the kitchen. It was no wonder he was so fat when he was always sneaking snacks from the cooks. The four of them could play in the garden. She thought it would be fun, but Devan wasn’t quite so fond of Patches.

The shadows playing on the walls brought to mind the song that Patches had taken to singing. She hoped he wouldn’t today.

_The shadows come to dance my lord, dance my lord, dance my lord._

There was a sharp crack and the fire spat fiercely.

_The shadows come to stay my lord, stay my lord, stay my lord._

Silverwing came alive, then. Stone into flesh into fire. She was beautiful and fierce and everything Shireen felt that she was not. She flew about the spires and gargoyles of Dragonstone, circling up and around the Dragonmont faster than she thought possible. She shone in the light, glinting like so many silver pieces. She settled down into one of the many courtyards of the castle.

Shireen saw that it was Aegon’s Garden, and marveled that Silverwing could even weave her great bulk between the trees. She sauntered through the tall dark trees and the cranberry bushes and found her way to the wreckage of the sept.

She settled atop the pulled down stones and curled up, wrapping her tail around what had been the site of Jaeherys and Alysanne’s fateful marriage. Smoke trailed from her nostrils, and her eyes closed. She looked almost like a bird on its nest, Shireen thought with a laugh.

Belatedly, Shireen realized that if her Silverwing had come alive, then she was in its belly.

She started with a yelp. The fire still cracked and hissed before her and her heart raced. She remembered Lady Melisandre’s words.

 _I have to tell Edric_.

-

Shireen had first run to the training yard, but found that he wasn’t there. A breathless interrogation of a bruised young squire revealed that Edric had already had his fun for today, and he had strutted victoriously to Aegon’s Garden to wait for her. She apologized to the boy for her cousin’s roughness and continued on toward the wooded Garden.

She crossed the Dragon’s Tail and made her way to the Conqueror’s grove some time later than she might have usually. She had been stopped by a gaggle of queen’s men, who showered her in salutations and well wishes. Propriety demanded she return the niceties, and she didn’t have Edric to use as an excuse this time.

When she found her cousin, he was smacking a poor tree with a stick.

“What did the tree do to you?” She asked, shocking him from his violence.

“It gave me a look I didn’t like,” said Edric, growling. Then he laughed and tossed the stick to her.

She caught it, but only barely. “How did it give you a look? We don’t have a heart tree here!”

Edric looked confused. “We don’t?”

“This is why you have to pay attention to Maester Pylos’s lessons, cousin,” Shireen said, laughing. The godswood in the Red Keep as well as the one in Storm’s End both had heart trees (and both had been nearly as unsettling as Dragonstone’s gargoyles, with their red sap flowing like bloody tears from carved eyeholes), but the Targaryens had never worshipped the Old Gods. Since the whole castle was built by them, it made sense that they had cared little to observe rituals of the First Men. The sept had come later, she knew.

Edric waved a hand dismissively, smirking. “I know how to fight, that’s good enough for me.” He knew that it flustered her to disregard higher pursuits, so she rewarded him with a swat at his ankle, which he dodged nimbly. “What did the queen want?” he asked.

That pleased Shireen. He rarely used her title, instead simply calling her _“your mother”_ or _“Lady Mustache”._ She dropped the stick. “It wasn’t my mother,” she said, “it was the Lady Melisandre.”

A hungry look appeared in her cousin’s eyes. “Hmm? What did she want?”

“To have a few words with me.” She didn’t want to tell him everything, he didn’t have the patience for such things anyway. “But when she left, I looked into the fire and–”

He quirked an eyebrow. “–Why’d you do that? Trying to hurt your eyes?”

Shireen frowned. “No, _cousin_. The Lady Melisandre sees things in her fires, so I thought I should try.”

“But I thought you didn’t believe in her fire god?”

“I don’t.” _I think_. “But she said my father had looked into the fires as well.”

That got his interest. “The king?” he exclaimed, leaning forward, “Did you see anything then?”

She nodded excitedly, what she saw coming back to her. “The dragon on my door came to life! It flew all around the castle and the Dragonmont and then came right here! It fell asleep on the sept. It was beautiful.” It hadn’t been like her other dreams of dragons, as she hadn’t gotten scared until the very end.

Edric scratched his chin. It was a broad Baratheon chin, but it was not so apparent as hers. “Well then it couldn’t be true then could it? The dragons are all dead, aren’t they?” He looked over toward the ruins of the sept at the edges of the Garden, and then back to Shireen.

After Lady Melisandre had burned the old statues of the Seven in her grand ceremony, her mother had ordered that the sept be torn down. She intended for it to be rebuilt into a temple for Rh’llor. Her mother wanted it to be the greatest temple to the Lord of Light this side of the Narrow Sea in honor of her father’s prophesied ascension. The sept had been knocked over quickly enough, but as the Battle of the Blackwater neared, the men had been needed elsewhere, and so what was left of the once beautiful sept on Dragonstone was a pile of rubble and bricks. Since the battle, none had cared enough to clear it all away; her mother had been mourning and her father brooding.

Edric suddenly walked away quickly, and she had to hike her skirts up to reach his side.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re going to the sept, obviously,” Edric said. “You think I pay no mind to my lessons but _sometimes_ I listen.”

“What?”

He gestured at her as he stalked between the trees. “All the dragons are dead!” he said, grabbing a few cranberries from a stray bush. “But everyone always calls people by their houses.” He munched them quickly. “’ _We’ll get those lions yet’_ , or ‘ _Others take those wolves’_ and all that sort of thing.”

So? She was a stag then, or a doe.

“But Uncle Renly liked talking about the family line, and I listened every now and again. He said that his grandmother was a Targaryen, I think. The daughter of some king.”

Rhaelle Targaryen, she knew. The youngest daughter of King Aegon V. She’d married Ormund Baratheon, and together they were her great grandparents, though even her father had met them only when he was very young.

“So if the _dragon_ dragons are gone, then maybe you’re the dragon?” He said, spitting out the seeds. “The one in your dream, I mean.”

 _But then you would be a dragon too, wouldn’t you?_ She wanted to say, but even as much as he bragged of his father, she knew that he kept himself apart from their shared history. She didn’t know if visions worked like that, besides. Daenys the Dreamer had seen the Doom, and so fled from Old Valyria with her family. Why would a prophecy be so unclear?

“I don’t know about that,” is what she said instead.

Edric shrugged nonchalantly, “What could it hurt?”

Soon enough, they were upon the rubble of the sept at the edge of Aegon’s Garden. Stones were scattered every which way, as if the builders had cared for nothing when the building was torn down. Some had been moved already, perhaps to reinforce fortifications elsewhere, but much of the material that had made up the sept was haphazardly strewn about.

Looking back to her, Edric asked, “You’re sure that dragon came to the sept?” At her nod, he knelt down and began to root around in the rubble. He picked up a rock, looked at it closely, and then threw it off to the side.

“What are you looking for, cousin?”

“Anything interesting, I suppose.”

Shireen knelt down too and started sifting through the stones and bricks and rocks. They wouldn’t find Septon Barre’s prism, for he had been allowed to take it with him when he was sent away. It surely would have been shattered amid this mess besides. This wasn’t Lady’s work, and certainly not something a princess should be doing, but with Edric it was fun.

It would have been more fun with Devan and Patches too, but they had not appeared. She hoped that whatever was keeping Devan was not something unfortunate. He had squire’s duties, but typically he still had time to play at this hour.

Shireen grasped a smooth piece of rock and held it close. It was remarkably even-surfaced for something that had been between so much refuse. But it seemed to be nothing more than a rock, so she tossed it.

She didn’t think Lady Melisandre’s visions concerned smooth rocks. She didn’t believe her mother would be so devout if that was all the red priestess saw in those fires.

Bricks, bricks, stones, rocks, some wood, bricks.

An hour and many bricks later, Shireen found herself very, incredibly, truly, tired. Somehow, Edric was continuing to dig.

Her fingers felt as though they were like to fall off. Her dress was filthy, her legs sore from crouching, her knees somehow scuffed _through_ her dress, and her back ached. Mother would not be happy if she managed to catch her in the halls.

Suddenly, a stone narrowly missed her and she screamed, more from the shock than anything.

“Look out!” her cousin called belatedly.

She snatched it up off the ground and examined it, biting back the shout of indignation she wanted to unleash at Edric…

_Odd…_

It was unlike anything else she had seen in the ruins of the sept. It was somewhat under half the size of her head. It wasn’t smooth, really, as much as it was… scaled, she supposed. Like the scalemail some men-at-arms in her father’s service wore, or like the lizards that basked atop rocks on the beaches of Dragonstone. It was a deep purple too, and when she turned it in her hands, it caught the light and shone ever so slightly silver. It was more sphere than oval, or she might have thought it a stony, overlarge chicken egg

Most odd of all though, was that the stone was warm. Very warm. It had been getting cooler since autumn began, and the rest of the rubble had been cool to the touch.

“Cousin?” she called. “Might I keep this stone?”

He gave her a strange look, as if she had said outlandish. “What do I care about some pretty rock? Do I look like a girl to you?”

Shireen held onto the stone, but soon enough they abandoned their excavation, distraught that they hadn’t found whatever it was her Silverwing was trying to lead her to. Maybe Lady Melisandre was wrong, and she didn’t have the gift of sight. She couldn’t wait to show Devan the stone though, he would surely appreciate it more than Edric had!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Do you want a clout in the ear? There are no dragons."  
> "No, but there are eggs. The last dragon left a clutch of five, and they have more on Dragonstone, old ones from before the Dance.]  
> -From The Mystery Knight
> 
> And there's another chapter going way longer then intended! But Shireen ended up being surprisingly fun to write, as did her interactions with Edric Storm. Next time we're back to team Aegon!


	7. A King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon steps foot in Westeros

_Chapter VII: A King’s Landing_

As it happened, the Narrow Sea had not been particularly kind to the _Seadragon._ It was certainly not the worst weather that Captain Gylloros had ever sailed through if he told it true, but it was no less fraying for Aegon. Harsh rains one day, blazing sun another. Billowing winds at all times, and more often than not in the opposite direction, toward Essos. They were forced to rely on oars, but laden with goods as they were, it was relatively slow going.

Aegon kept up his studies as best he could, and sparred with Duck on the deck when the weather allowed for it. Lemore had seemed comfortable enough in the frightful conditions, as did Haldon and Jon, but Duck had been more than a little disquieted.

“Remember please that I chanced Essos to avoid the Wall,” Duck had said one day as they batted at each other with dulled steel (Jon did not want them risking live steel on a ship deck with the weather as poor as it was).

Aegon had laughed. “It has been years since you stepped foot in Westeros! And the Wall is a long way from Bitterbridge.” There was little chance that any at the Wall would recognize Duck and demand he take the black for his crimes, particularly with the gifts they bore in hand.

The _Seadragon’s_ crew had been an interesting enough lot. Each had a story to tell, and Aegon was always willing to listen, however much it dismayed Jon. One man, Medge, had originally called the small fishing village near Eastwatch home, and had much and more to say of its quality of life; there was a reason he now spent his life rowing a merchant vessel and had not returned in many years. Another by the name of Belo hailed from Lys, but had fled his life there after accruing considerable debt in its famed pillow houses.

He and Jon had spent much of the voyage attempting to put together some semblance of a concrete plan, but in truth there wasn’t much for them to discuss. They knew little of conditions at or beyond the Wall besides what Duck had heard from Ser Alliser Thorne and the whisperings from Varys’ little birds while they had waited in Braavos. They would land in Eastwatch, and make their way to Castle Black as quickly as time would allow, then gather what information and evidence they could. They would attempt to convince the Watch to escort them in the lands beyond the Wall, and perhaps see the living dead in person; find out what they could and bring it all back to the Golden Company.

For all his desire to do good, Aegon knew his party of five could not fight whatever it was that lurked beyond the Wall alone. They would need the Golden Company, but for that, he would need some amount of proof. Surely the Night’s Watch would help them if they knew what aid they could bring to bear.

They saw the Wall first.

The Titan of Braavos was always a pleasant sight when one made their way to the Secret City. The Braavosi kept their waters well patrolled, so there was little risk of pirates, but that fear was present to some degree no matter the waters one braved. But the Wall was something else entirely. The Wall was visible on the horizon long before the land beneath it came into view.

It shined pale blue in the sunlight as they crept ever closer.

When they came closer still, Aegon could see in detail the Wall’s ending. From a distance, it was somewhat less apparent, but closer, the fact that the Wall ended at the sea-line was almost… disconcerting in a way… or foreboding.

When they were finally close enough to make out the finer details of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, Duck had put it best.

“Looks a right shithole.”

And so it did.

Even from the sea, Eastwatch was a ramshackle establishment. Wooden keeps and less than a handful of stone towers, with not a one even reaching a hundred feet by the look of it. A couple ships sat docked at its harbor. Aegon had seen many towns better fortified and more sturdily built throughout Essos (the threat of Dothraki did that, he supposed).

Still, whatever its faults, it was their destination, and it would be his first steps on the land of his birth. Their king had come home, even if they did not yet realize it.

When the _Seadragon_ at long last slid into port after a too-long journey across the choppy waters of the Bay of Seals and beyond, Aegon had near thrown himself over the gunwale, but had been held back by Jon until the gangplank could be lowered down.

Stepping onto the dock, Aegon took a deep breath, feeling the cold air bite at his lungs. The sun shined high, though it was quickly making its way to the horizon, as it had been some hours since noon, and a few clouds dotted the far sky. _This isn’t so bad as my dream_ , he thought with some satisfaction. _There is time yet._

Jon stepped out beside him, his hair freshly dyed and his brow set. Even his thick beard was blue now. Often, he had let it grow in red when he did not deign to shave it, but here in Westeros he was more recognizable, and it was cold enough that a beard was a reasonable choice.

The others followed after them quickly enough. Haldon and Duck had let their beards grow as well, though Duck had usually kept his regardless of weather. All of them had bundled themselves in wool and furs, though they had been wearing such for a time already on the open sea. The Bay of Seals was as chilly as it was choppy, and catching sick would have helped no one. Lemore in particular wore much, for she felt that the cold did not agree with her. She wore a large white robe above it, as well as her seven-pointed star pendant, to make her status as a septa plain. All of the men wore swords at their hips, and even Lemore had a dagger hidden away in her sleeves, he knew.

Aegon hopped a little, testing the sturdiness of the wooden dock beneath him. It wasn’t as terrible as it looked, though he was no expert in construction. He supposed it would have to be, to have stood the test of time as it had. His left hand went to the hilt of the blade he called Brightfyre (in mocking, he insisted) and his right went to his chin, which he scratched. He too had begun to grow a beard, though it was a thin, paltry thing. It shone silver in the sunlight, but it was not near enough to waste dye on when most would mistake it for blonde.

A large man clad all in black made his way up the dock to them and Aegon let go of his sword’s hilt. It wouldn’t do to present a threatening image to the men they sought to aid, after all.

When the man approached closer, Aegon saw that he lacked a nose. Besides the gap in his face caused by this, he was a thickset man, with a thicker mustache that did little to disguise his deformity. Still, his eyes were not entirely suspicious as he came upon them. “What brings you to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea?” he asked. “I know every ship that comes and goes; it is not often that I spy a new hull.” He looked from the five of them to the anchored _Seadragon._

Jon spoke for them. “We mean to go to Castle Black,” he said. “And we come bearing gifts as well …?”

“Borcas,” the newly named man answered. “Head Steward of Eastwatch.”

Haldon continued then. “We bring foodstuffs and materials, and would take some along to Castle Black if you would provide escort.”

Borcas glanced from one of them to the next, “The Night’s Watch doesn’t have the luxury to refuse gifts freely given… but why?”

“I met one of your number,” Duck said. “In Braavos, and he made clear the Watch’s need.”

“Ser Alliser?”

“Aye,” Duck said, nodding.

Borcas returned the nod. “Our need is great, especially now. Come, please, I will arrange for men to bring in your cargo.”

Aegon followed closely behind the noseless black brother. Haldon stayed behind to make certain the seamen handled their goods properly and that the captain was well compensated, but the rest followed behind him as well. The Wall shined and glittered.

They saw a number of sworn brothers along the docks, and yet more when they entered the keep proper. Aegon relished in the feeling of real earth ( _Real Westerosi land_ , a part of him whispererd) beneath his feet once again, for though he loved the sea and the feeling of a deck below him, after a voyage, land was always nice. But it was clear that the keep had room for more than called it home at current. Men sparred in the training yard, others carried lumber and stone to and fro, and yet more patrolled the edges. For all that there were men about, it was bizarrely quiet. An oppression hung in the air like a fog.

Borcas spoke, cutting through that oppression ever so slightly. “The mood has been poor for some time,” he said. “We have heard little from the Lord Commander in some moons and many fear the worst.”

“In Braavos we heard little of this, but there were rumblings of some… ranging, perhaps?” said Jon.

“The wildlings have been gathering under a new King-beyond-the-Wall, a former brother called Mance Rayder,” Borcas said. “Lord Commander Mormont meant to discover the truth of the matter, and search for some missing rangers besides. Near on a third of the Watch’s strength went with him, most from Castle Black and the Shadow Tower.”

 _And they haven’t heard from them?_ The circumstances here truly were dire. His visions had not lied in that respect.

They came upon a stone tower in somewhat better repair than the others. The Head Steward gestured up to it. “I’ll have rooms prepared for you here in the Sea Tower.” He made a face as he said the tower’s name. “I will show you to the common hall, and I’ll have a brother sent to you when the rooms are appropriate for visitors.”

The common hall was only a short walk away from the thoroughly boringly named tower, and they passed by a few more burly and surly men in black. “Thank you,” Aegon said to the noseless man as he waved them through. Inside, he could finally no longer see the Wall.

“If any of you desire a meal, inform Grell that you are visitors to the Watch. If he complains, tell him he can muck the stables instead if he pleases.” With a chorus of gratitude from them all, the man was off, walking far more quickly than he had when he led them. He was so matter-of-fact, that Aegon almost thought him a waking dream.

Several fires burned within the large common hall, making it far warmer within than without. It was not snowing at present, which even meant that it was probably a warmer day than it might have been. Black brothers sat at tables near and far, dicing and jesting and laughing.

Jon sat at a bench farthest from any of the black-clad men, and the rest of them took a seat around him. The laughter quieted as they sat, and Aegon saw several sets of hard eyes scan their way. Jon was clearly wary, but Lemore seemed decidedly unworried. Duck quickly removed himself from the table.

“I’ll see about some food,” he said, “Enough for all of us.”

Aegon couldn’t see where the kitchen was exactly, but Duck had a nose for that sort of thing, so he was sure he’d find it soon enough. He wasn’t starved, but some food certainly wouldn’t hurt. He looked to the men nearest them.

Four men, all in the blacks of the Night’s Watch. All four had seen more than thirty years, and one lacked an ear from what he could tell. An old set of carved dice rolled across the table again and again, to jeers and laughs and shouts of anger. Rapers and robbers they might be, but they seemed about like any other men Aegon had met, if rougher than many.

Jon tapped the table irritatedly, while Lemore sat with her arms crossed in front of her.

Aegon supposed that there must have been worse first impressions. Borcas had seemed a good enough sort, and they had not been attacked or turned away. He counted it as a fair introduction to Westeros. But judging by Jon’s expressions, perhaps his own standards were simply incredibly low. Aegon was not sure of the customs of Eastwatch, so whether this was a sort of luncheon or the men in the hall had been allowed to take a break, he did not know.

Soon enough, Duck returned to the table with a few trays laden with bowls of some sort of soup and hunks of bread. The soup was allegedly mutton, but Aegon could only make out bits of turnip and cabbage, though he thought he could detect a bit of mutton in the flavor of the broth. The bread was nearing stale, but still edible enough to Aegon’s standards. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure if it was any better than the _Seadragon_ ’s fare, but it was food and it warmed the belly.

Here, that was probably worth more than any other aspect of food.

Duck tore through the food quickly, as Aegon did. Lemore ate at a somewhat more sedate pace, while Jon fell somewhere in the middle. Aegon knew that his palate called for more than the life of a supposed sellsword had granted him (he was sure he ate fine meals at Griffin’s Roost, or when he was the Mad King’s Hand), but he tackled less than delicious meals as he did everything else, with dogged determination.

“I’ll wait for Haldon here,” Aegon said as he finished his meal. “He’ll be hungry, and I have plenty time to wander later.”

Jon swallowed the bread he’d torn from the hard heel and gave him a measured look. “Duck will stay with you. Lady Lemore and I will seek some loose lips among the sworn brothers. Conditions on the road, this great ranging, or whatever else they have to tell.”

Aegon shrugged. He was used to Jon’s protectiveness. Once upon a time it had rankled him to be seemingly coddled as much as he was (especially as he neared his majority) but when the secret came to light, it clarified everything. He was simply too valuable to be left alone most of the time. Duck was his sworn shield as much as he was his teacher in combat, so most often it was him. Which was fine by Aegon, as they had gotten along splendidly from the day they met.

Still, at times it made him feel like a particularly priceless jewel.

When Jon and Lemore finished up their food and left the common hall, Aegon found himself relaxing ever so slightly. Jon was distrustful enough of most common men that it almost bled into him at times. It was easier to return to his old persona without Jon around as a reminder of his true identity. He had spent most of his life as little more than a commoner, after all.

“How was the cook?” Aegon asked, turning to Duck.

“Oh, he was plenty pleasant,” Duck replied. “Only threatened to attack me until he realized I weren’t in black. As it happens, he’s most gracious to visitors.” He smirked.

Aegon laughed, shaking his head. He looked out to the men that were dicing nearby again, absentmindedly rubbing the rough edges of the bowl that had allegedly contained mutton soup. Their faces were lined, though how much was from age he could not know, with scars aplenty as well. One had blue eyes, another green, and the last two browns of one shade or another. Only one wore leathers that Aegon could truly call black, the other three seemed to be more gray than black to his eye, with more than a little brown staining the gray. _Blood, dirt, or both? These are the sorriest crows I’ve seen._ Every now and again, he saw them glance over to him and Duck with suspicion. These were rough men, of that much he was certain, even just by their dicing and cursing. But who was to say why they were here?

Duck would have been bound for the Wall for retaliating against a lord’s son’s arrogance and thievery. He may have gone too far, but he had been young and brash then, and every boy makes mistakes. Who could say how long these men had been here? They might have been young, brash boys that made a mistake once long ago, turned to cold, hard men by the great Wall above them. And here they served, never to father children or forge their own paths. Aegon frowned. It had to be a hard life here.

They had brought near as much food and supplies as they could stuff into the _Seadragon._ He would have to make sure that a goodly portion was left here, though he knew that more men called Castle Black home than Eastwatch, and Eastwatch had better access to supplies due to its port. If he could save them from this so-called mutton soup, then perhaps their days would be better for a time.

When Aegon couldn’t freely wander, he enjoyed watching people almost as well. So he sat, engaging in idle chatter with Duck while men filtered in and out as time passed. The clatter of dice ceased when its owner left. The other three had followed after him in short order. When they passed, he heard them whisper the word “blue” among other less savory words.

Aegon frowned, and saw the knowing grin split Duck’s face. It was always the hair with Westerosi men. Men of the Free Cities didn’t care one whit what color a man’s hair was. Even Meereenese men with their oiled horns of hair colored red or orange or gold. The only thing that ever turned heads in Aegon’s direction was when they noticed he lacked the telltale Tyroshi accent that most men who chose blue for their hair bore. He had heard all too many comments on his purported lack of masculinity in the common tongue, but he had let it slide off of him. Jon would never have approved of him getting into a fight.

After all, if he got his eyes scratched out in a bar brawl, the most silver hair in the world would not be enough to prove him for Rhaegar’s son.

A pair of men ambled into the hall some time later, complaining of some stairs. They settled into another table further away and began to play at cards. _What do they wager, I wonder?_ Aegon and Duck had become entranced by the rather close game of cards when a voice cracked like a whip behind them.

Duck’s hand was at his sword in admirable time, but if the man had truly wanted them dead, then the Targaryen dynasty would have ended that day most like.

“And who are you two? A brigand and his pretty lass from a pillow house?” The man all but spat. Aegon turned. The man was severe looking as any he’d seen, with long black hair gone mostly to grey, and a clean-shaven face. His mouth was thin and curved wickedly. “The Night’s Watch doesn’t take _women_. Is this what it has come–” he stopped when his gaze came to Duck. “…Ser Rolly?”

Duck let go of his sword’s hilt, his green eyes meeting black. He let out something that was half sigh of relief and half bemusement. “Ser Alliser? I thought you would still roost at Castle Black?”

 _This is Ser Alliser, then._ Duck had described him as severe; it was certainly the truth.

Ser Alliser’s gaze resumed its prior hardness, its astonishment quickly replaced. “I am Eastwatch’s master at arms now,” he said, pride mixed with scorn. “After my _foray_ in King’s Landing.”

There was a story there, that much was clear.

“The Lannister brat didn’t like that hand as much as I did, I take it?”

Ser Alliser really did spit this time, and he took a seat on the other side of Duck. “I never saw the King, only the _Imp,_ ” he said venomously. “That stunted halfman kept me in waiting in the worst accommodations he could find. An anointed knight! Weeks in waiting for an audience, and by the time he found it in his malformed self to receive me, the hand had rotted away to scraps and bones.”

“The bones did not continue to move?” Aegon asked, genuinely curious.

The knight barely regarded him, gaze haughty as he gave his hair a second look. “And who are you, _boy_?” he asked, making the word part accusation, part jest, and all insult.

This time, Aegon had to try harder to not let it rouse his anger. If the man knew Duck, why would he act as such to a companion of his? He knew it showed on his face some by the smirk it brought to the man’s thin lips.

“My squire,” Duck answered. “Young Griff, we call him, for his father is Griff,”

“Is this the aid you have brought us?” Ser Alliser said, “A squire and a sellsword?” Even Duck seemed perturbed then, but Ser Alliser continued, “Bah. It is near as much as the crown gave us…” He turned to Aegon again. “But no, boy, as soon as the flesh and tendons were gone, the bones were as any other. And without proof of the ‘wight’, I had naught but stories and superstitions to persuade those self-important fools in Kings Landing.”

Part of Aegon felt smugly superior to the bastard on the Iron Throne and the others who would be king, for _he_ had come to the Watch in their need when they had not. But another part knew that it was mere chance that had brought him here. Had he not had that dream the night Duck returned, or had Duck not stumbled upon Ser Alliser in that Braavosi tavern, would he have come? If he had dreamt of that Summer Islander girl he’d known in Pentos, with her skin like ebony and her smoldering gaze, and not the Wall and the snow and _blue eyes_ , would he have come? Had he had that dream, but not stumbled into Haldon’s room, would he have dismissed it as a nightmare?

_I would be in Essos I think, dismissing stories of living dead men like all the rest, and preparing to take my throne._

“We have more than a squire and a sellsword,” Duck said, smiling. “We have his father, half a maester, and a septa as well.”

Ser Alliser gave him a look like stone, plainly not finding it as humorous as Duck did.

“…We also brought food and supplies for the Watch,” Aegon added.

“Aye, as much as we could carry. We plan to take some along to Castle Black too.” Duck gestured toward the common hall. “We were just enjoying some of the Watch’s hospitality while my squire’s father sees about securing horses and carts.”

Ser Alliser eyed the men playing cards and the empty bowls Duck and Aegon had put aside. “…While the Watch wants for much Ser Rolly, you promised much and _more_ in Braavos.”

Aegon slid his gaze back to Duck. This was news to him, for as far as he had known, Duck had merely gotten as much information out of the knight as he could. He hadn’t let slip about the Golden Company, had he? “Duck…”

Duck was at first sheepish, but then seemingly remembered himself and rounded on Aegon, “What have I told you about that name, squire? Do you want a clout in the ear?” He shook his fist threateningly.

Aegon had to suppress a smirk. Duck playing at the strict and dutiful knight was so uncharacteristic of him that he could barely pretend it was truth. Even before he had been told of his true identity, Duck had been very lax with his squire (to Jon’s consternation). “My apologies, Ser,” Aegon said with feigned contriteness.

Duck shook his head at him and put away his fist. Ser Alliser seemed approving of the reprimand, which made Aegon want to laugh all the more. Duck returned to his fellow knight. “My… associates are as flighty and suspicious as they are puissant, Ser. They did not take me at my word alone.” Duck liked finding ways to use “nobleman words” whenever he could.

“So they should want better proof, is that it?” Ser Alliser crossed his arms, and somehow his mouth became an even firmer line than it had been before. “The Old Bear took the Watch beyond the Wall in part to uncover what he could about these _monsters_ , but as I am certain you have heard, it has been some time since we have heard even a word from the Lord Commander. I have labored to convince Cotter Pyke to send a force north and discover what we may, but he has remained firm as a fishmonger.” Ser Alliser growled. “And even if you were to seal one of these so-called wights in a barrel and ship it to your _allies_ , I fear they might find little by the time they arrive here. If Mance Rayder brings the wildlings south, the Watch will not hold, with or without darker forces at play.”

“Ship a dead man…” Duck scratched his scruffy red beard. “Could it be done, you think?”

Ser Alliser didn’t respond, and Aegon had to restrain himself from swatting the back of Duck’s head. Duck knew damn well what the greater point was, he just enjoyed being obtuse, and knew that his so-called squire couldn’t be too obstinate if they were to keep the illusion up.

“Why not just lop off all the limbs and send each one to a different lord instead?” said Aegon. This earned him a glare from Duck, but it was an innocent enough comment for a squire to make. _Anyway, that’s not the point._ “…But is it truly so dire on the Wall, Ser?” He made sure to use the man’s proper title, men like him were nothing if not concerned with their due respect.

Rather than an answer, the knight asked a question. “Do you know the stories of the Kings-beyond-the-Wall, boy?”

Aegon frowned. He knew them vaguely, He was sure Haldon had told them to him in detail, but there was so much history to remember, that the goings-on of the North were relatively low priority to him until recently. “There were several, I believe. Every time they rose up, they were struck down by the Night’s Watch or northern lords.”

Ser Alliser nodded. “The man that crowned himself before Mance Rayder went by the name Raymun Redbeard, some eighty years past. The Night’s Watch numbered two or three thousand then, and we still had brothers at Deep Lake and Rimegate. Raymun Redbeard snuck his army past the Watch and had to be put down by the Warden of the North and the Umbers. Now, we have less than a thousand sworn brothers.” He looked to the men that played cards nearby. One yelled when he saw how outclassed his hand was. “Most are rapers and thieves and poachers; few knights or lords’ sons. Near a third of our number might be dead for all that we know, including our Lord Commander and most of our fighting men. The King in the North has taken most of the North’s might south, and the Ironborn that have taken their rear have never had much regard for the Wall.” He paused. “So tell me, what do we do if Mance Rayder attacks?”

Stunned, Aegon looked to Duck; Duck looked back to him.

“I have no idea,” Aegon said.

“Then you are ready for high command,” Ser Alliser said, “For they know little more than you.” There was a pregnant pause, in which none of them said a thing. Then suddenly, the grim man stood up. “If Cotter Pyke will not provide your party transport, then I will ensure you get it. I hope to meet the rest of your number at supper, Ser.” The man walked out of the common hall; it was quickly darkening outside, so surely supper would be served soon.

Aegon and Duck sat in silence for a time.

 _What can I do? Do the dead even matter now?_ He thought of the Wall, the tears that fell down it in the sunlight, and the eyes he had seen beyond it. He thought of the Wall falling and his failure to fly. He remembered the Three Thousand of Qohor, and how they had faced off against fifty thousand and been victorious. _But these odds are worse,_ he thought, _and these men are not Unsullied._

Duck turned to glance at him, then frowned.

“What?” Aegon asked.

Shooting up, Duck strode over to the two men playing cards. “Hullo brothers of the Night’s Watch!” He said loudly, “Would you mind if my squire and I joined in your game?”

One frowned, and the other looked suspiciously from Duck to the still sitting Aegon. Then Duck reached into his purse and threw a golden dragon to the aged and scratched table.

“Get in ‘ere then!” The one with muddy brown hair and a fierce scar on his face said.

The other, an older man with hair and beard the color of straw and a nose like a beak scooted over, making room on the bench he had used.

“Squire, you heard the man!” Duck yelled, pointing to the now open seat.

Aegon shook his head, smiling, and made himself comfortable in the seat next to the older black brother. The brown haired one dealt the two of them into the game, and soon enough, it was on. By the time a sweet-smelling smoke had wafted in from the kitchen and the rest of the black brothers had begun to filter into the common hall for supper, Aegon had become “The Tyroshi brat” and was several stags in debt. He knew little and less of this particular card game, but if Duck meant for him to forget his worries for a time, he succeeded.


	8. The Make of a Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duck spends some time at Eastwatch

_Chapter VIII: The Make of a Man_

The next day, dark clouds gathered in the sky. As noon neared, Duck stood off to the side of the sparring yard with a gaggle of others, including Lemore and Haldon and a number of black brothers. He watched as Aegon and the Ironborn lad took a few practice swings at phantom opponents. His squire the king seemed a bit out of sorts clad in the padding and mail of the Night’s Watch, but Ser Alliser had been adamant that if “the Tyroshi brat” were to test his mettle against his own trainees, that it should be as close to fair as was possible. Of course, Ser Alliser had quickly snorted at the thought of an Ironborn savage measuring up to another trained by a knight, Essosi or not.

But illusions of fairness must be kept up, at the very least.

Erag had a fair few inches of height over Aegon and a lot more weight, that much was plain, but the boy had clearly been a weak fighter to end up here. He and a few other ill-fated raiders had been captured up near Bear Isle (if Duck heard it true), and only he and another (Roran?) had been given the choice to take the black on account of their youth. Deciding that life on the Wall was better than no life at all, they had been sent along to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

Duck couldn’t quite place the age of the lad, but his facial hair was far more impressive than anything Aegon could manage as yet. A sandy brown beard covered Rigon’s sour aspect, though it had been even more sour before he’d been told to armor himself. They liked their fights these Ironborn, Duck could not fault them that.

Septa Lemore leaned closer to him. “He should shave,” she whispered.

Haldon “hmm’d” in assent.

“I think it suits him just fine,” Duck replied, smirking. “What’s an Ironborn without his beard, after all?”

Lemore gave him a long silent look and then shook her head in disappointment.

But perhaps she was right. Aegon’s poor beard was coming in ever stronger, and it was as silver as the Wall was godsdamned cold. It was bizarrely lenient of Jon to have let him keep it, especially here, where such features were rather uncommon. Duck felt for his king, for he too had once been a boy with a wisp of a beard that yearned to be more.

“Helmets on!” Ser Alliser called out.

Erag’s surly face was soon obscured under a tarnished old great helm, and Aegon was tossed a rickety visored helm that had seen many a better year. Aegon looked at it for a moment in seeming deliberation, but then put it on as well, the blue hair that earned him his nickname here disappearing in its iron depths.

Aegon had better equipment stashed away in their chests, Duck knew, but it would have been poor sport to let him wear all that while Ser Alliser’s men were granted the great honor of using hand-me-down armor. Besides, Aegon had trained in old, used armor for much of his earlier years. Jon had not commissioned him a proper set until some time after Duck had begun to train the boy.

“I have money riding on you, Squire! You’d best not disappoint me!” Duck yelled.

The helmed head of his squire turned to him almost in askance, but then shook and returned to his opponent. Duck grinned.

Haldon made a noise to his left. “It’s a wonder he has not picked up your bad habits,” he said.

“The gods are kind, even if you are not, Duck,” Lemore said ruefully, but still smiling.

Duck spat. “I show him how not to behave is all.” He made himself sound as high and mighty as he could manage. “I teach by example.”

Lemore snorted a most un-septalike snort and Duck smiled. He hadn’t actually bet on Aegon… or the Ironborn boy for that matter. He just liked Aegon to think that. It made him work harder.

If they wanted to think him unsavory, that was fine with Duck. He was sure he remembered hearing something about “true hearts” trumping all else from a septon at some point after all. And a little unsavoury-ness never hurt no one in any case.

When Ser Alliser called for them to commence, the cheers were few on the black brothers’ end. The Ironborn were only marginally more loved here at Eastwatch than in the rest of the northern lands, and how much of that was due to its commander’s own heritage Duck could not say. Still, the other Ironborn lad hauled in to the Watch gave Erag a shout of encouragement. Erag held a one handed sword and a scratched up oaken shield, while Aegon favored a bastard blade. Both weapons were blunted, from years and use as much as intent.

Erag was tall and broad, while Aegon was less tall but very lithe, even fully armored. Duck had oft heard the cliché that finesse and speed were better than strength and brawn, but Duck knew that to be the comforts whispered to the weak after a very sore beating. Nine times out of ten, the bigger man beat the brains out of the smaller one.

This was that one occasion out of ten.

Rigon was no weakling. He had clearly handled a blade more than a few times even before being sent to the Wall, and he looked to have the strength of an aurochs. But for all that every individual blow might have sent Aegon sprawling to the ground on his arse, not a one of his blows could hit home. Aegon danced around the larger boy, not even striking back for a time, seemingly gauging his opponent.

A massive overhead strike was sidestepped, a long slash across his chest ducked under, and a multitude of smaller blows batted aside almost without care. Aegon kept his relative distance. A hand and a half sword was not outrageously longer than a one handed blade, but it was always prudent to keep a smidge of distance between yourself and another with a shield.

Then, in seemingly an instant, Aegon had slipped into the other boy’s guard and knocked him straight into the muddy ground. The blade was at his throat.

Still holding his sword and shield, the Ironborn boy made an unkind noise. But then, “I yield,” he said, dropping his sword. Aegon offered a hand and pulled the heavier fighter to his feet.

“Shall we go again?” Aegon asked as Erag snatched his dropped blade off the muddy ground.

Erag turned back to Ser Alliser for direction, but the man was as impassive and grim looking as he usually seemed to be. Returning to Aegon, the boy nodded. “Might as well.” The boy’s voice was deeper than Aegon’s too.

Aegon let his opponent collect himself, and then on an unspoken cue, the two of them clashed again.

Duck couldn’t help but find himself jealous. He was an excellent sword, he knew, but Aegon was a natural. He was a natural at most any pursuit that he decided was worth his time, really. But the king didn’t like to be reminded of it, insisting that he was as good or bad as any other man might be, but Duck knew that this was a falsehood. The blood of the dragon was old and magical, beyond the stuff that ran through a common man, and it flowed through his king’s veins most strongly.

If the old saying was true, and the gods flipped a coin when a Targaryen was born, it had certainly come up in Aegon’s favor.

Several bouts ensued. Aegon continued to make relatively short work of Erag, but some bouts he let last longer, parrying all manners of slashes and cuts for lengths of time before ending it quickly. Others, he went hard on the offensive, delivering rains of blows that were not quite so strong as to finish his opponent in one go, but to give the Ironborn trainee plenty of practice of his own.

Each time Erag fell, Aegon said nothing other than offering a rematch and his hand if it seemed he needed it.

After a particularly hard fall, the other boy finally shook his head when he returned to his feet. “I’ve ‘ad enough,” he said, before turning to the crowd of black brothers. “Roran, your turn!” He peeled off his great helm and tilted his head to Aegon ever so slightly.

Aegon nodded back.

Roran had looked to Ser Alliser, who barked an affirmation, then strapped on what remained of his armor as quickly as he could manage and marched into the middle of the sparring yard. Roran was of a similar build and look to Erag. Common, for sure, and perhaps a bit older. More a young man in truth than a boy. They seemed related; perhaps cousins?

As the fighting commenced, Haldon spoke up. “The _Seadragon_ and its crew intend to tarry only shortly. They mean to leave as soon as they can restock.”

Duck nodded. By the crew’s words during the voyage, it had seemed likely. They bore little love for Eastwatch.

“…I ventured to the nearby village this morning,” Haldon continued, “to investigate some queer talk.” His cool grey eyes trailed between Duck and Lemore.

“As queer as “wights”, or more?” Lemore asked. The men of the Watch had spoken freely of wights in the common hall the previous night, as they might discuss wolves in the wood, or of a very large bear. Something to worry about, yes, but something that they expected.

“More,” Haldon replied. “The fisherfolk speak of white walkers.”

The clashes of steel on steel faded slightly as the three of them shared a look. They had heard whispers of them as well, but there had been no confirmation of them as there had been the wights. No Other had attacked the Lord Commander in his bed.

“And?” asked Duck.

“You know as well as I that fishermen and their ilk are like to exaggerate… but I believe them.” He breathed deeply. “They recount white figures stalking the northern shores. They say they wear armor like a looking glass, that shines and reflects. Whenever they steer their boats closer for a better look, the figures retreat back into the shadows of the wood.”

“Could it not be wildlings?” said Septa Lemore.

Haldon shrugged. “It is possible, I suppose, but if any were to know a wildling by sight, I would think it would be men of the north.”

Duck frowned. It had been closer to a year than not since he first caught sight of the rotted hand at Pynto’s and heard what Ser Alliser had to say. But it was still strange to think of himself as living in a time of legends such as these. He had grown up listening to stories of such things, relished them, even. Many a night he had spent exchanging scary tales with other boys at Bitterbridge, but he had never once thought they might be true. Or rather, if they had been true at any point, then those times had long since passed.

And here was as the Wall, where he had fled from the possibility of so many years ago, chasing living dead men and Others.

“All we need now are some giants, Children of the Forest, and dragons.” Duck said. “And then we’ll know we’re well and truly fucked.”

Haldon said nothing and Lemore’s handsome face contorted into a frown. “Grumkins and snarks,” she said, after a time. “You mustn’t forget them as well.”

Roran fared somewhat better against Aegon. He was better able to use his advantage of weight against Aegon, but still, he could not prevail against the more agile, trained fighter. This one did not take Aegon’s offers of aid to return to his feet as well as Erag had, but he still fought again and again.

As the two of them continued fighting, it began to snow lightly.

Duck remembered the last winter vividly, but it was still a strange sight to finally see again after so many years. It was like greeting an old enemy. There was some fondness, sure, but mostly wariness. He was lucky to have been a smith’s son and apprentice, the cold had never hit him as hard as it did the poor sons of farmers out in the fields.

After one bout, Aegon raised his helm’s visor and looked up into the falling snow. He reached out to the snow with his free hand.

 _He must barely remember the last winter,_ Duck thought. “Keep your godsdamned visor down!” Duck yelled.

Aegon jerked in shock but dutifully slammed his visor shut again. “I was just looking at the snow…” he grumbled.

“You won’t be able to look at much of anything if you take off your helmet with an opponent just feet away!” Duck yelled again, gesturing at Roran.

Roran clearly hadn’t been moving to attack though, Duck knew, but Duck had seen far too many men lose their eyes or lives in the middle of a battle. Aegon would keep his visor down and his helmet on any time a blade was near if Duck could help it.

When the two of them resumed their sparring, Duck turned back to Lemore and Haldon. “Father above,” he said, “that boy will be the death of me.”

“If it comes to it, then yes,” Haldon replied. “That’s one of the reasons _Griff_ pays you as well as he does.”

Duck crossed his arms. “I know.” And it was true. He absolutely would take a knife for Aegon. _My life for a king’s? A duck for a dragon?_ It was a better deal than he had any right to get, truly.

The snow picked up as the sounds of battle gradually died with the energy of the combatants. Aegon was good, but his stamina was not endless, and on the Ironborn’s end… well there was only so much of a beating a grown man could take before giving up. When Ser Alliser finally called for the fighting to end, the gathered men went their separate ways. Aegon following after Roran and Erag.

Duck saw Septa Lemore’s eyes flick between the faces of the numerous dour, black-clad men as they returned to their posts. Thinking back, she had been rather attentive the night before, at supper, as well. He had just thought she was wary of the strangers, as Jon was, but…

Everyone in the party knew Duck’s story, but neither he nor their king knew a thing about Lemore.

“Looking out for an old friend?” _A father, maybe? Brother? A lover, even?_

She clutched the seven pointed star at her chest, turning to him and transfixing him with those eyes of hers. She shook her head. “I don’t think he is here,” she said sadly, seeming younger than her years. “It has been so long, he may even be with the gods now.”

Or maybe he had been one of the ones that went beyond the Wall.

It was after several hours of wandering Eastwatch and the lands that surround it with Aegon, talking to any and all that were willing and marveling in the snow, that Jon finally called them together in the Sea Tower. Their rooms had been furnished as well as the Watch seemed able to, and they had rested well the night before. It was delightfully warm after spending time out in the falling snow.

“Cotter Pyke has agreed to give us what we need. Transport, horses, and the men to man it all,” Jon said when they had all gathered.

A grin split Aegon’s face. “Good! After tarrying so long in Braavos, it bodes well that we will be moving along quickly.”

“Mayhaps Lemore was right about that falling star,” Duck said. “About its color and what it meant.” The comet had finally dipped beyond human sight some time ago, but it was well remembered nonetheless. Here at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea they had called it “The Heavens’ Slit”. What _that_ foretold, Duck was less sure of.

Jon frowned slightly. “It will be some time still until the goods can be loaded into wains, and it is likely we will not be able to take it all at once, as the Watch can spare only so much. And if this snow does not let up or grows worse, we may be forced to wait longer yet.”

Aegon’s grin fell some, and there was a bout of quiet. “Is there any word of the Lord Commander?” he asked.

Jon shook his head. “Still no word. Last Pyke had heard, Mormont and the ranging had camped at the Fist of the First Men, and scouts had been sent out even further.”

Duck knew little and less of the lands past the Wall, so this all meant little to him. But by the sound of it, it was some distance. _Hells,_ he thought, _I know near nothing of the North, let alone what lies beyond it._

“For now, I think it best that we make use of this time,” Haldon said. “Learn what we can. The lay of the land, the circumstances here, rumors, all of it. Any of it may be of use.”

Jon nodded, agreeing. Lemore bowed her head slightly as well, and Aegon’s grin had disappeared entirely by this point, but he too nodded.

“Time is never a waste if we use it well, right Duck?” Aegon said.

“Aye.”

-

By the time the weather had let up and they had all the men and wagons they could handle, the _Seadragon_ had left the port at Eastwatch and Duck had already more than had his fill of the area. The idea that he may have had to serve here for life was positively sickening to him, and he had never been more glad to have escaped to Essos in his youth. There had been rough times in the Golden Company, especially early on, but even those had to be better than living here in this godsforsaken place.

Aegon had continued to join Ser Alliser and his trainees, and by the end of it, even the surly knight had taken something of a liking to the boy he didn’t know was his king. Or as close of a liking Ser Alliser could take to someone. Duck had dutifully followed Aegon wherever he decided to go, while taking care to always make it seem that Aegon was the one following him. Despite his nickname, most Aegon spent time conversing with took a liking to the “Tyroshi brat”. His king was nothing if not gregarious.

 “If other Ironborn are like Erag and Roran,” Aegon said as he pulled himself onto a wiry and short grey garron, “then I should think the Ironborn’s reputation is somewhat undeserved.”

Duck scoffed.

“It’s rather odd that an Ironborn has never served as Master of Ships, don’t you think, Duck? One would think it’s the natural choice to make.” He gave Duck a knowing look.

“Half the realm would revolt I think,” said Duck. “The Ironborn have more than earned their scorn.” Growing up, Duck had heard a number of tales of Ironborn raiders making their way up the Mander. They took women as their saltwives and plundered wherever they went. He had no liking for the men of the Iron Islands. Not at all.

Aegon shrugged and made a noncommittal noise. “Perhaps there would not be so much strife if all of the kingdoms were included on the small council.”

“Wherever there is power, there is strife,” said Haldon to the other side of the king. He was bundled up in furs near as much as Duck himself was, and he let his hair fall rather than tie it up as he usually did. His garron was as dark as his words.

“Rather grim, don’t you think?” Aegon said. “I would be more hopeful of the future, Halfmaester.” He wore furs too, but they were not as thickly layered as the rest of them were. His blood always ran hot, and he rarely felt the cold as Duck did. _What I wouldn’t do for a bit of that dragon’s blood_ , he thought with grim humor.

The snow had let up some days ago, but it still packed well enough on the ground that Duck could hear it crunch whenever his garron took an impatient step. If the sun decided to peek out from behind the clouds again, the road would fast become a pain to travel. They would have to wait even longer for the mud to dry, so it was decided that they might as well make the trek then. There was no better time than the present, after all.

Jon and Lemore soon wheeled around to them. Jon, ever the worrywart, had taken special care to be sure the men sent along with them were of the less blackhearted variety of sworn brother, but still, he checked their cargo and then checked it again. Lemore suspected less of these men, but tended to go with Jon on his errands anyway. Men were less likely to lie in the presence of such a godly woman. Duck knew better.

“Are we ready?” Aegon asked, his tone as bright as his chin now that he had been ordered to shave. He had kicked up a great fuss, but in the end acquiesced. Jon was not one to be trifled with on such matters. Duck had been tempted to shave as well, so that Aegon should not feel so sour about the matter, but in the end had delighted in gloating of his facial hair instead.

“As ready as we shall ever be,” Lemore answered, smiling.

Duck’s garron whickered as he urged it forward. He heard the wheels of the wains behind them creak in protest as they began their journey. The Wall was a hundred leagues long, they said, and they would have to traverse near half of it to get to Castle Black.

He still didn’t know what exactly they would do when they arrived at Castle Black. They were only a small party, and an army of savage wildlings could already be attacking for all they were aware. But Duck still regularly thought of that day in Pynto’s. He still saw that caged hand in his dreams and nightmares.

Duck would not let his king face danger without his sworn shield at his side. Aegon had been called here by the gods, Lemore thought, and he was inclined to agree. And why call him here if not for some purpose?

Slouching slightly, he turned to look at his squire and king. Aegon sat proud and tall on the back of his horse, but not as a lordling might. Not as that scoundrel Lorent Caswell had. Duck straightened up some. _I might not know my purpose, but I know my duty._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer gap between chapters. I hope I'll be able to pick up the pace again, but I've been wrestling with some mental health shit.
> 
> I know people really want to see the crew get to Castle Black and for the plot to begin in earnest, so forgive me the quicker pace of this chapter. I didn't want to spend forever showing them hang around at Eastwatch.
> 
> Thank you all for the wonderful comments, I really hope you continue to enjoy this (:


	9. Dire as a Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon arrives at Castle Black

_Chapter IX: Dire as a Wolf_

_“He pulled out that sword_

_And out the blood flowed_

_He gripped that red sword_

_And down the tears poured_

_He swung that fiery sword_

_And his cries he ignored_

_He clenched that bright sword_

_And the daaaaaay was hiiiiiis rewaaaaaaard,”_ Aegon finished, drawing out the last bits of the song, as was his wont. He let the silence sit for a moment; Lemore always said that a song was most effective if the listener had some time to reflect on its words, and he agreed most heartily. His mount continued to trudge through the snow, and he heard the creaking of carts and wheels all about him. Finally, he turned to the man he was riding alongside.

“You’re good,” Dareon said, tone appreciative. “Damned good, even. You said you been singing since you were a child?”

Aegon nodded.

The black brother scratched his chin, nodding as well. “Well it’s clear to anyone with an ear. That’s natural talent that is. But what is that song? I’ve heard a thousand songs, and never heard nothing about no fiery sword.”

Aegon was taken aback. He looked to the other nearby black brothers with a questioning glance. There was a similar lack of recognition amongst their gazes as well. “You’ve never heard of Azor Ahai, truly?”

“A zor a what now? Is that the name of the sword?” Calum, an older black brother asked with half a chuckle. “Stupid name for a sword.”

Aegon sputtered. “No! The sword is called Lightbringer, Azor Ahai is the man’s name. He’s…” he paused, struggling to come with a concise explanation. “… Everyone in Essos knows of Azor Ahai and Lightbringer, even those who don’t pray to Rh’llor. He’s the most esteemed hero there is on the other side of the Narrow Sea.”

Dareon suddenly smacked a fist to his palm, “Ah! So a bit like the Last Hero you mean.”

Thinking back to his lessons with Haldon, he vaguely recalled something about a legend of the First Men, but not enough to truly say, so it was Aegon’s turn to shock the sworn brothers. He shook his head.

Calum roared and Dareon struck his side half-heartedly. “What do they teach you in those frilly Free Cities?” Calum shouted. “Not knowing the Last Hero! Bah!”

Dareon smirked, but offered up an explanation “He fought the Others, it’s said, and turned back the Long Night. But I like this Azor Ahai too. Stabbing his own wife to save the world from darkness. Very dramatic!” He laughed.

Dareon was a trim and handsome youth, with flaxen hair shorn short and hazel eyes that glittered with laughter. He filled the air with songs as often as the other brothers would let him, and Aegon had approved. Calum, meanwhile, was as dark and hard as most of the other black brothers, but beneath that exterior, he was as prone to japes and jokes as any man was.

Most of the men of the Night’s Watch Aegon had stricken up conversation with seemed decent enough men, truthfully. He had known better men and he had known worse men. They were men with all of their sins and all of their virtues.

The Wall glittered in the sunlight as Aegon and Dareon swapped the tales of the respective heroes. The brothers liked to say that the Wall “wept” on warm days, and it was a good description in his opinion. Despite the snows that had marked the beginning of the journey, the weather had been remarkably sunny and warm (or as warm as it got at the Wall) since. The Wall had been dripping glittery blue tears near every day.

Their path from Eastwatch to Castle Black had never wound far from the Wall itself. Conditions forced them to take somewhat less direct paths at times, but the Wall was so massive that it was always in view.  It was such a constant that Aegon eventually began to forget it was even there. He’d spend some time riding and singing or trading stories, then turn, and realize once again that the Wall was there; it was there and absolutely tremendous. It was like living with a bear or some other great beast, as many wealthy magisters did. After a while, you forgot that it was strange in the first place, until you gave it some thought and remembered that a man-killing beast was sleeping on your expensive rug.

As it turned out, there were more than a few similarities in the stories of the Last Hero and Azor Ahai. Both featured swords in some capacity, though the Last Hero’s was broken in two, and Lightbringer was aflame.

“Personally, I’d chance it with the fiery sword,” Calum had said, chortling.

The circumstances of the great darkness were somewhat different (and much more detailed in Dareon’s telling of the Last Hero), but they both featured prominently. Rh’llor himself featured in the story of Azor Ahai, but no god or gods made themselves known to the Last Hero or his companions. All told, it was a grim tale.

Aegon had spent a bit of time teaching Dareon the words of Azor Ahai’s song, but had mostly wiled the day away talking of this strange Essosi tradition, or that odd personage from the Free Cities, and listening to Calum and Dareon’s tales of Westeros in turn. The sky was beginning to darken when they finally caught sight of Castle Black.

Like Eastwatch before it, Castle Black was something of a horror. No walls protected it, but Aegon knew the stories as to why this was the case. It was ramshackle, even from a distance. A handful of towers rose from its sorry collection of old stone keeps and halls. One tower reached near a third of the way up the Wall but was in visible disrepair. If this was the state of the headquarters of the Night’s Watch, then Ser Alliser’s grim outlook seemed more reasonable than ever.

Dareon took a deep breath, inhaling the chilly air with apparent relish. “Ah, Castle Black,” he said. “Feels like I’m coming home. Assuming that it’s home if I hated every minute I spent there o’ course.”

“So just like home then, eh?” Calum said with a snort.

Aegon smirked despite himself.

By the time they were nearly upon what passed for a gate to the castle itself, Aegon had pulled to the front of the line of carts. Jon and Lemore had spent much of the journey at the fore, while he and Duck had ventured up and down the line freely. Duck met them there shortly. Jon’s face betrayed a worry not unlike Ser Alliser’s, and Aegon saw a similar emotion in Lemore’s face as well.

He knew what Jon was thinking. _‘This is a fool’s errand,’ I’d wager._ But a king had to be foolish at times. They had to be everything a common man was and more, and if that meant he must needs take risks, then so be it. The Night’s Watch was in a pitiable state, that was certain, but there was a reason his dreams had called him here.

“They appear understaffed,” Jon said, his tone flat.

And it was true, there were few men in the yards. Braziers burned here and there; most of the visible movement in the castle seemingly came from the smoke wafting up from the fires.           

“It only stands to reason,” Lemore replied. “Half their men went out on that ranging, or so they told it.”

“Aye, but to see it as it is,” said Jon, shaking his head, “I never would have thought this possible.”

The Night’s Watch had been an afterthought in his learning. He had learned much and more of the history of the Seven Kingdoms. He had learned of these kings and those kings. The Kings of the Rock, the Gardener Kings, even a handful of the Kings in the North to some extent. He had learned much and more of the Blackfyres and their six rebellions, and which lords and lands had been more likely to stand for one side of the other. He had learned much about the Dornish and their wars against the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, as well as Daeron I’s final incorporation of Dorne into the realm, and the aforementioned Blackfyre Rebellions that followed. He had learned of Blacks and Greens, and the horrors that dragons wrought on man and dragon alike, as the Targaryen dynasty tore itself to shreds in the brutal Dance.

Haldon, Lemore, and Jon had taught him so much of the realm that was his. It had filled his years easily, and he knew there was yet more that could fill it long into his future. But what he had belatedly realized was that precious little had been taught about the Night’s Watch. Everyone knew of the Wall, and everyone knew that wildlings lurked beyond it. Giants had lumbered about in the lands north of the Wall once, though they were long dead. The Night’s Watch did little, if their exclusion from most of his lessons was a commentary on their importance. Every so often, there was a King-Beyond-the-Wall, and every so often the Watch aided in putting them down.

Otherwise, he only ever heard them mentioned when a rogue knight or lord was not simply killed for his treasons. Those lucky ones would be sent to the Wall, and most oft, there their stories ended.

But beyond those skilled, if traitorous, few, what went to the wall was thieves, poachers, rapers, smugglers, and whatever else.

“How often did you _hear_ of men going to the Wall voluntarily, father?” Aegon asked, his meaning clear.

“Without threat of death or mutilation?” Jon asked, to which Aegon nodded. Their horses took tired steps toward Castle Black. “Rarely. Most knights and lords would rather have served the rest of their days as a master at arms, steward or some such.”

“Did anyone in your family ever serve on the Wall?” He asked.

“No. Not in my lifetime at least, and probably my father’s as well,” answered Jon.

Aegon frowned. “Then if knights and lords are the best of us, how could the Watch do anything _but_ decline if none will go?”

Jon hadn’t gone to the Wall. He’d been exiled when he had failed to eliminate the Usurper. He would have been allowed to join the Watch had he demanded it, but he had chosen to go to Essos. Jon was a mighty knight and an able commander; he would have served the Watch well, but he had not gone. Aegon glanced sidelong to Duck.

“Don’t be sore,” Duck jeered, though there was a decided lack of venom. “I didn’t go either, Griff.” Duck had risked his life escaping the Reach and fleeing to a foreign land. He hadn’t had the security of a former king’s Hand or a lord. He hadn’t been formally exiled. Near every man had the option of joining the Watch when they committed a crime, but he too had chosen exile. And he certainly hadn’t been among the best of men then.

If Aegon wasn’t who he was, would he go the Wall? Would he raise his sons and see his daughters wed, tend to his family and have it flourishing if he could help it, and then, when he should have the time to enjoy the fruits of his labors, instead spend the rest of his days here in this cold? Would he have done that?

Eastwatch had not been hellish, and Castle Black did not _truly_ look it either, but the conditions were undoubtedly poor. And he had seen and talked to men who had spent years here. He witnessed and felt what the Wall did to men.

But even after all these considerations, if he, in his twilight years, went to join the Watch, how much of a boon was an old knight or lord, truly? Disquieted, Aegon fell in alongside the man who had been his father. It was hard to blame him for choosing Essos.

A lone black rider met them as they passed onto the grounds of Castle Black. The black brothers among them must have been plain enough to the men stationed within to signal that they weren’t a band of brigands or raiders. Still, he was glad they at least sent a man out to make sure. He was a small man, with common brown hair and great big ears. He looked about Aegon’s own age, though he might have been north or south of it with the boyishness of his countenance.

“Who goes there?” the man asked, back straight in an attempt at appearing imposing.

By then, Calum had made his way to the front of the column as well, being something of a senior brother among the batch that had been sent with them from Eastwatch. “Come off it boy, it’s plain that they’re with us,” the older man growled.

“Aye, shove off Pyp,” Dareon called from further back.

‘Pyp’s’ eyes flicked back and forth from Calum to Dareon and all between, clearly nonplussed. “You know how the Ol’ Pomegranate is, he likes to know the goings-on!” He said, mastering his tone.

“Old Pomegranate?” Calum asked. “I haven’t been back here in years, how should I know how some man likes it?”

“The Lord Steward I mean; the Lord Commander made him castellan before he left. And he’s been right edgy since–”

Jon finally cut in, his voice easily projecting authority, “We are friends to the Watch. The Lord Steward has nothing to fear; we come bearing goods and seeking news.”

The man called Pyp appeared quizzical, “News? Well we got plenty of that.”

“Really, what?” Aegon asked, unable to contain his curiosity. It earned him a somewhat reprimanding stare from Jon.

“Well, I s’pose plenty is the wrong word,” Pyp said, unbothered by his interjection. “But we have news, and I’m afraid it isn’t good. The great ranging has been attacked.”

-

It was no time at all before they were brought before the Lord Steward himself, a man named Bowen Marsh. Having partaken in a pomegranate or three in his time, Aegon found that it was an apt moniker for the castellan of Castle Black. Round, red, and flustered, the man appeared about ready to burst, though Aegon wasn’t especially keen to discover what juices would spill out.

They had been ushered through a large oaken door, studded with bolts that showed clear signs of age. Pyp (Pypar, in truth, he had told them) himself had brought them up the winding tower’s stairway and into the warm solar. Rolls of parchment and countless bottles of ink seemed to cover every surface of the room, as if it were a bizarrely academic moss on an old rock. There was some order to it, but Aegon could not decipher it.

Bowen Marsh sat behind a large writing desk, his face near as red as the fire that roared in the hearth.

“Thank you Pyp,” the man said. “Return to your duties.”

The younger steward made a face, but duly acquiesced and quickly shuffled out of the room.

The Lord Steward cast aside a parchment and stood up from his desk. He gestured to the number of chairs that had been set out. “Please, sit,” he said. It was not an unkind voice, but there was some steel beneath the pleasant hum.

Haldon sat near Lemore, while Jon took the seat closest to Bowen Marsh. Duck sat in the furthest seat, and Aegon took the one next to him. It was only appropriate that a knight’s squire sat beside him, after all. As the foremost of their party, Jon offered introductions.

“I am Griff,” he said. “And the boy is my son.” Aegon bristled a bit. He had been a man grown for well over a year now… “His instructors: Haldon.” A nod. “And Septa Lemore.” A smile and a brandishing of her pendant (as if her habit wasn’t enough). “And Ser Rolly Duckfield, who is teaching my son in the ways of knighthood.” Aegon laughed internally, though Duck played the part well at the moment.

 

The Lord Steward looked from one to the next, taking in each of them. “Cotter Pyke had word sent ahead of your coming,” he said, once Jon was done. “And as the Lord Steward, I would personally thank you for your contributions to the Night’s Watch. I know better than near any man how direly the Watch lacks for supplies.” Bowen Marsh inclined his head to Jon, and then his eyes scanned over each of the rest of their party. He lingered on Lemore. “It is not often we have women on the Wall, as I am sure you noticed at Eastwatch.”

Marsh let it linger, but they all caught the underlying message. Lemore would have one of them nearby during their stay here, that much was certain. While Aegon didn’t think the sworn brothers likely to assault her, Jon thought differently. He was always wary, but Aegon supposed that was what had gotten him through the turbulent years of Aerys’ reign.

“Might I ask of the news of the ranging?” Jon asked. “Your men made mention of it, but I would hear it from a high officer. Tales have a way of growing in the telling.”

Aegon saw the red of the Lord Steward’s face pale to a dull pink and the firm line of his mouth fall slightly. “We received the ravens soon after you left from Eastwatch I’d gather. The men had been camped at the Fist of the First Men, far to the north, for some time. There had been some word of further expeditions with smaller parties, but we had not heard anything definitive as to the wildlings’ intent... Then a raven arrived with news of an attack upon the Fist.”

They had heard all of this in one way or another (Pyp was talkative), but it was still something of a shock. Haldon leaned forward. “Were the wildlings making their move?”

“We know little and less of who led the attack… or how many now lie dead for that matter,” Marsh replied grimly. “Maester Aemon believes that the message was written long before the attack, so that in the event of an engagement, ravens might be dispatched at once. As such, the letter is vague.”

The mention of his distant relative nearly made him jump. _He’s alive,_ he thought, _I will meet another Targaryen then._ He knew he would one day meet his Dornish family, but after the disappearance of Daenerys, Aegon had thought he might never meet a living Targaryen until he had his own children.

“And there were no further messages?” Jon asked, jogging Aegon from his thoughts.

Marsh began to shake his head, but stopped suddenly. “It could be said that we received more messages…” He chuckled darkly, with no trace of real humor. “The ravens came to us in force only a short time after the first raven had arrived. But the messages they bore were blank. Naught a word on any of those godsdamned birds. We have received nothing else.”

The great bulk of the Watch’s fighting men might already be dead or dying then. This… this was somehow worse than he’d been expecting. Alliser had impressed upon Duck the Night’s Watch’s need, he knew, but in that village on the Bay of Lorath, even with bright blue eyes boring into his brain, he had not thought it could be as bad as it had turned out to be.

As a squire, he knew most here in the Seven Kingdoms would look less kindly on him speaking out of turn. He could play roles, for he’d played them all his life, intentionally or not. _I came here for a reason._ Aegon spoke up. “So, it could be the Others, then? And not the wildlings?”

The Others were used frequently as a curse word by men and women from Westeros. He’d seen the way men of Essos would stare unknowingly at their mention, but even among Westerosi, it was something of a lesser curse, at least in his experience. But here and now, with the men of the Watch, the word was almost never heard. Here it wasn’t just a curse anymore, here it was a reality. And men seemed to fear that speaking their name might turn the Others’ blue eyes to the one whose lips the word had escaped. Aegon’s question hung in the air like a miasma.

Finally, the Lord Steward stood, almost laboriously. His brown eyes bored into Aegon’s own. “Aye. It could be.”

Aegon traded glances with everyone else in the room. Haldon was calculating, Duck nervous, Lemore worried, and Jon… Jon he couldn’t define. There was a bit of everything in his sharp blue eyes. But Aegon could see the man he’d grown up idolizing. He could see the mighty warrior and the loving father. He could see determination.

“Did you see them, Lord Marsh?” Jon asked. “The Others?”

“Others? No.” The Lord Steward took lumbering steps out from behind the desk, stray parchments fell as he squeezed his way past. “But I saw the wights,” he said as he neared the fire. “Or what remained of them, at least. I had known the men they’d been before, too. Othor and Jafer. Good men they’d been, and able rangers. Jafer killed five men before he was brought down and burned. Othor would have killed the Lord Commander if it weren’t for Snow and his wolf.”

_Wolf?_

“Othor…” Duck said, trailing off. “I saw his hand in Braavos. It still moved. It clawed and scraped and twitched all about in that cage.” He shivered. “It gave me nightmares that did.”

“And half the men of Castle Black as well,” Marsh replied. “I’m sure you heard from Ser Alliser himself about his sojourn to Kings Landing. Aid from the capital is more sorely needed now than ever before.” He spat into the fire. “Five kings, and not a one lifted a finger for the Watch.”

 _One did,_ Aegon thought.

“This is the matter that has drawn us here, in truth,” Jon said.

“The five kings?” Marsh asked.

Aegon caught Duck’s quick smirk, but Jon managed to keep his face straight. “No. Aid for the Watch.”

The Lord Steward turned away from the fire, meeting Jon’s gaze and arching an eyebrow. “Beyond what you have already brought then, you mean?”

“While the Night’s Watch lacks for much, by both Cotter Pyke’s measure and my own observations, what it lacks for most is _bodies_ ,” said Jon. “Is that a fair estimation?”

“The greatest defenses in the world mean little if there are no men to man them,” Marsh answered. “Aye. Our foodstocks are low, and much of our steel is of poor quality, and more men would only compound these issues, but still, we need the men. Even if every man of the ranging returned alive, we would still need for able bodied defenders.”

“… What if I told you that twenty thousand skilled swords could be brought here?”

Marsh stood straighter, his eyes wide. “I would ask who? What army, and why?”

Jon’s eyes flicked over to Aegon’s. Aegon smiled.

“Because this is the war that matters.” He saw Haldon, Lemore, and Duck all glance his way, nodding. “If the Wall falls, it will not matter who sits the Iron Throne. And as to who and what army?” Jon took a deep breath. “I speak of the Golden Company.”

Bowen Marsh stared. Shock, then comprehension, then confusion all washing across his red face in quick succession. “You said your name was Griff? Who are you, _really_ , Griff?” His eyes seemed to take in Jon anew.  

“I am a retired sellsword, and nothing else,” Jon said with practiced ease. “…But I have very powerful and influential allies. Allies that would see the realms of men _guarded_ , rather than overtaken by monsters and savages.”

Marsh fumbled his way back to his writing desk, his gait somehow even more ungainly than it had been before. When he sat, he took several deep breaths and went about reshuffling some of his parchments, as well as picking up the ones that had dropped to the floor. Suddenly, he jerked. “They would need proof, surely? Else you would not speak in hypothetical.”

At that, Jon grimaced. “We had hoped to find that proof might be readily at hand when we made it here. We had heard of the great ranging even in Braavos, but now…” He trailed off.

The Halfmaester took the silence as on opportunity for input. “I admit, I had been skeptical at first,” Haldon said. “But I see the fear in which your men have spoken of these _wights_. The villagers near Eastwatch… they spoke of Others. And they did not lie. These are not the drunken sailors’ stories or children’s tales. …Perhaps if we saw them ourselves, or better still, if we could get ahold of one of these wights, or even a part of one…” Haldon said, “Surely, it would persuade even the most skeptical of men.”

“And the men who wield the greatest influence, veer the most toward skeptical, as your Ser Alliser discovered,” Lemore said.

“You mean to range beyond the Wall yourselves?” Marsh shook his head vigorously. “No. Most definitely not. The wildlings might be anywhere in these woods, and even veteran rangers perish routinely north of the Wall. No.”

“But–” Aegon started.

Marsh rounded on him, “No. Not until the ranging, or whatever is left of it, has returned, at the earliest. You would not survive without seasoned rangers at your side. Your chances are better if you wait. And I would _not_ have this chance slip through my fingers.”

Aegon clenched his teeth. He looked over to the rest of his party. By their unshaken reactions, they seemed to have expected this. If the Father was just, Aegon would never become so jaded.

“In the meantime, I would have you stay here in the King’s Tower, as it is fitting for honored guests. There are rooms that have scarce been used in years that I will have made ready.”

Jon stood, gesturing for the rest of them to follow. “Thank you, Lord Steward, for your hospitality. With good fortune, the ranging will return soon, and the Golden Company will be fetched while there is time.”

Bowen Marsh bowed slightly. “Make yourselves comfortable where you can, I will send for you when your rooms are prepared.”

When they left the Lord Steward’s solar, Aegon noticed that Lemore had stayed behind. He looked to Jon in askance.

“She has another matter to discuss with the Lord Steward, she will be along shortly.” He said, always quick to ward off Aegon’s questions.

-

Later, Aegon managed to peel off Duck for a time, and found Dareon next to a brazier in the primary courtyard, Pyp at his side. Warming their hands at the fire, they seemed surprisingly somber. From what he’d seen of Pyp, he’d seemed amiable enough, and Dareon was ever a conversationalist.

“What’s got you so quiet?” Aegon asked as he sidled up.

Pyp looked over, and something flashed over his face. “What’s your name again?” he asked.

“Griff,” Dareon supplied. “Though everyone calls him Young Griff, on account ‘o his father bearing the same name.”

“Y’know Young Griff, you look a bit familiar to me,” said Pyp.

Aegon froze. Surely Maester Aemon was far too old for there to be any obvious resemblance? Surely! Was there someon–

“Yeah, I know who it is,” Pyp continued, “you remind me of Satin.” He chuckled.

Aegon breathed more easily. It was just some joke he wasn’t party to.

Dareon’s face scrunched up. “Who’s Satin?”

Pyp rounded on Dareon. “You don’t know Satin? W–Oh… Right. He got here after you left. He’s the pretty one, with the curly hair. You’ll see him around before you leave.”

Aegon turned his hands against the fire. It was delightfully warm in the now chillier air. He wasn’t looking forward to being here when winter truly arrived… Hopefully by then, they’d have taken care of everything here.

“But to answer your question. We were talking about the ranging.”

“Several of our brothers were on that ranging,” Dareon added.

“Aren’t they all your brothers? Sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch?” Aegon asked.

Pyp gave him a hard look. “They’re all our brothers, o’ course. But some of them were our _brothers_. Lord Snow and the Aurochs and Ser Piggy.”

“We were trainees together,” said Dareon. “So if any o’ them died on that ranging, I’d think it’d be them. Green boys always go first.”

Oh. “Wherever they are, I hope they return,” He said in commiseration. It was the best he could do. “…This Lord Snow, is he the one with the wolf, who slew the wight?”

Pyp smiled. “That’s him. He’s not a real lord. We just call him that because his father was Lord Stark.”

“Before they cut off his head.” Dareon shook his still attached head.

That Aegon had a harder time sharing in their reverence for. Lord Stark was one of the men who had helped bring about his own family’s downfall, however terrible a king his grandfather had been. “So, he’s a bastard then?”

The two brothers nodded.

“Like half the Watch,” Pyp snickered, “We got Stones and Flowers and Pykes and Snows. Can get ‘em ten a penny here at the Wall.” He sobered quickly. “Lord Snow was the best of our bunch though, except in singing.” Dareon bobbed knowingly. “and he’s got a great big dire wolf at his side. Silent as a spirit with red eyes. A good dog that Ghost is.”

Aegon supposed it wasn’t much different than an average magister with an exotic pet. Many even had whole menageries, really. But here, it definitely felt strange for there to be a man with a wolf. Especially a Stark by blood if not name.

“What is a dire wolf, exactly? I’ve never seen one.” He knew _of_ them. Heraldic symbols of the houses great and small were drilled into him by Haldon, Jon, and even Lemore.

“Most haven’t, don’t feel bad about it,” Pyp said, smirking. “They’re just overlarge wolves, if I’m honest. As if wolves weren’t big enough as is. Fiendish smart too. Jon could near have conversations with that wolf.”

“Jon Snow’s his name, then?”

“Uh-huh. And Ser Piggy is Samwell Tarly, and the Aurochs is Grenn.”

“I hope I get to meet them all,” Aegon said, truthfully. Dareon and Pyp seemed good men. Any friends of theirs could just as easily be friends of his. Even Stark’s son.

Without warning, Dareon jolted. “Hey, Griff, tell Pyp that mad story.” At Aegon’s questioning look, he continued, “The one with the sword, the Lightbringer and all that!”

And so Aegon spent his hours. He knew that Pyp and Dareon were most likely dodging some duty or another. But the Night’s Watch was their lifelong duty. They’d have years upon years to fetch this or that, and tend to that crumbling building or leaking wall. If he could be their excuse to have a reprieve for a night, he was happy to provide it. It was the least he could do.

If he could help it, he’d do much more for them. He’d make sure they’d have those years and years to tend to this, or fetch that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm sorry for the wait. This is far slower than I'd like to update. I hope enjoyed the chapter. OVER 100 KUDOS THOUGH WOO
> 
> Few notes: I don't intend to cover things that have already been covered in canon. So I won't be showing any of Jon's wildling adventures or Davos spiriting Edric away or anything like that. If you're a big Jon fan, just sit tight, because I do intend for him to be one of the pillars of the story, but his plot is exactly as canon until he finally shows up at CB and Team Aegon creates divergences for him. In general, assume that everything that is happening off screen is happening as in canon.
> 
> Additionally, I don't really intend to explore POVs outside the main groupings. Team Aegon/Team Stannis/Jon (and maybe his friends). Eventually, there will be plot divergences occurring off screen in KL and so on, but I know how easily a story can balloon out of control if you widen the scope (looking at you GRRM). I'm focusing on the characters I want to focus on.
> 
> Also, Rh'llor stuff will be important. Don't remember if I mentioned that. If you hate Rh'llor, sorry. I'm sick of Rh'llor being portrayed as a fire demon/evil god in a million stories, and so it was one of the impetuses for this fic as a whole.
> 
> FINALLY: I'm on the hunt for a beta. If any of you would be willing and able, let me know. Someone to bounce ideas off of and tighten up my writing some. All that fun stuff.
> 
> Actually last real thing. If anyone is curious about pairings and junk, know that any sort of pairings won't come into play for a while. And the important ones will be arranged marriages, not love matches. I don't like it when stories tag things that don't happen for eons, so I haven't yet. If you have any dealbreakers or just really wanna know, I can "spoil" it in the comments. I know I get annoyed at certain stuff and don't like to read a long story and then have it get dumped on my lap. 
> 
> Thank you all, and again, I'll try not to take so long next time. Once every two weeks at the most is what I'm hoping for. Every week is my goal.


	10. The Chained Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon pays a visit to an old man

_Chapter X: The Chained Dragon_

Time passed slowly at Castle Black. Life had been slow going at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, but that was before there had been any definitive news of the Lord Commander’s ranging. Now, energy and hope seemed to have drained right out of the black brothers. Not a soul knew when, or even _if_ Mance Rayder and his wildling host would be coming for the few men of the Night’s Watch that remained.

But most thought he was coming, the arguments and mutterings concerned mostly from when, where, and how the attack would be coming. Some said he’d build skiffs and bring his men across the Bay of Seals and take Eastwatch. Eastwatch had ships, a fair number even, but not enough to handle the sheer number of wildlings in Rayder’s host, assuming the stories were true. He could make for the Shadow Tower instead, and some insisted this would be the smartest course of action for the man, as he was originally a brother of the Shadow Tower and would surely know the land well. Yet others believed he would simply dig through one of the collapsed tunnels and gates of the abandoned castles, and they would soon find themselves taken from the wrong side of the Wall.

Whatever the stratagem posited, the mood was unanimously low and the outlook worse. Aegon admired Pyp more than ever for his japes amidst such a storm of hopelessness.

Aegon spent the slowly lessening daylight hours in the practice yard for the most part. The men that had been left behind were mostly from among the ranks of the stewards and builders, as the great majority of rangers had gone beyond the Wall; of those remaining, many were too old or simply unfit for battle. Ser Endrew Tarth seemed to appreciate his enthusiasm at least, and welcomed his and Duck’s presence. The recruits looked less kindly upon his skill at arms, but “It’s better that we bash you up a bit than a screaming wildling does it,” Duck had said, “and mayhaps this bashing means you’ll survive the next one.”

He found himself practicing his archery very frequently as well, but realistically, there wasn’t too much use in improving one’s accuracy. Aim would matter little if they ended up loosing from the top of the Wall. Seven hundred feet of air and wind would impair even the surest of shots.

Lemore had spent much of her time caring for the frankly dilapidated sept. The septon here at Castle Black was half drunk at the best of times, and falling over drunk the rest of them. Lemore had let her displeasure be known to Bowen Marsh (for lack of a higher authority), but had decided it would be better to lead by example. The sept now looked considerably better than it had in years (if Spare Boot was to be believed), and attendance to organized prayer had seen a noticeable jump. Aegon was reasonably certain this had more to do with Lemore than it did any newfound faith.

Jon was most often keeping near Lemore (Haldon relieving him most times when he went elsewhere) during her cleaning and repair of the sept; he still thought little of the black brothers, and trusted their vows of celibacy even less. He was often called away by the Lord Steward, but otherwise made himself scarce. Occasionally he would watch Duck and Aegon in the training yard, and a few times even fought, other times Aegon had seen him leave the armory. Aegon knew Jon was not comfortable here, and chafed in the waiting.

Haldon had quickly made himself a second home with Maester Aemon and his assistant (Clydas? Clyden?) in the libraries. There were few men at Castle Black who could read, and fewer still who could reliably write, so the presence of another skilled eye and hand was a boon if Haldon told it true. Aegon could only trust Haldon’s word, because he had as yet not visited the aged maester.

Because now that he was here, and actual living, _breathing_ family was only a short walk away, he found himself paralyzed. When he was young, and Jon’s tales had been his reality, he knew that Jon was the only family he’d had left. It had all changed when he was told the truth, but in some ways, it was almost more torturous. His family had been massacred, and most of what was left was out of reach.

Now, it was within reach, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach out his hand and grab it tight.

“If the Lord Commander does not return,” Jon had said, “and they will not take us beyond the Wall, then we will go to the Shadow Tower, and try Mallister instead. We cannot sit by idly forever.”

Haldon had furrowed his brow. “The Watch is depleted,” he’d said, “It would be unreasonable to expect them to take us north to find an enemy that they do not even know the location of. I fear we would get much the same answer from the Shadow Tower.”

Aegon grit his teeth, gripping the wool of his coat forcefully. “We did not come here for nothing; we have a purpose to serve. The ranging will return, I know it.”

But he did not know it. It was hope as much as it was belief.

He’d never been a fanciful child, he’d never had delusions of some grand destiny. He would be a sellsword, probably a knight too, and win fame and fortune like his father. Then later he discovered that he was to be a king; one that was good and fair and would right the wrongs of his grandfather and the usurpers alike. Never had it been because of prophecy, but because of duty. That had all changed. Now here he was, halfway across the world because of a nightmare and a half-rotted hand with a life of its own.

“But we should be prepared in the event that they do not,” said Jon. “If the wildlings come in force, as the Lord Steward believes, then we will be as sheep to the slaughter. We are not tied to the Wall, as the Night’s Watch is. If it’s between dying with them, or escaping with our lives, we will escape.”

Aegon hated it, but he knew that Jon was right. Dying here would help no one, least of all himself.

“If we must leave with our tails between our legs, then we will go to Strickland,” Aegon said. “I will convince him myself. No matter what happens here, I know the face of our enemy. I will make them see it too.” Breathing deeply, Aegon took a leap of faith. “I mean to tell Aemon.”

Jon’s blue eyes narrowed. “Tell him what?” His voice was flat. Jon knew damn well what he meant.

“About me. Who I am and why I am here.”

Haldon smirked, shooting a sideways glance to Jon. “I knew he would. Duck and Lemore too.”

Crossing his arms, Jon sat back in his chair. He took a long slow breath through his nostrils, his lips pressed into a thin, grim line. He uncrossed his arms and opened his mouth, then slammed it shut and crossed his arms again.

“If we cannot secure escort through and beyond the Wall, and we _do_ have to leave without proof of the threat, then by the time I return here, he might be dead. The wildlings will kill every sworn brother they can if they take the castle by strength of arms, and even if the Watch manages to hold them off, his age might well be the end of him.” He turned to Haldon. “Have you heard any mention of my aunt?”

“None,” Haldon said, shaking his head. “Not here, at Eastwatch, or among the fisherfolk. Aemon and Clydas certainly haven’t heard anything.”

“Then this might very well be my only chance to talk to one of mine own.” Aegon clenched his fist. “And he’s the only Targaryen left who remembers the Targaryens in all their splendor. My aunt remembers less than even I.”

Jon looked him deep in the eye, his dark blue against his own deep purple. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. Do as you will, son, you’re a man grown.” He smiled. “I cannot shield you forever, or you shall end up as the bastard on the Iron Throne.” Jon looked to Haldon. “Does he seem a trustworthy sort?”

“Maester Aemon? Aye. He has been nothing but accommodating to my inquiries, and the men here love him as a grandfather besides.” He stood, adjusting the thick furs he’d taken to wearing in the north. “If Marsh was worthy of knowing of our link to the Golden Company, then Aemon is worthy of this. Of that I am certain.”

And with that, Aegon had finally had no excuse. Jon’s presumed disapproval had been his final hurdle, so with his blessing, he could no longer pin the blame on another. Every day he waited was another day he risked the old man taking ill and becoming delirious, but every day Aegon found himself in the practice yard beating on recruits instead.

Arron and Emrick, two brothers from way out in Fair Isle, were fair enough fighters, but poor Hop-Robin was a truly sorry warrior. His clubfoot was little but a hindrance when it came to his footwork, and he was surely destined for stewardhood. A ranger he was not. Only Satin showed true ferocity, though he had a decided lack of practice. Which was to be expected from a boy of his background.

He shared his story readily enough when Aegon proved himself companionable, but it wouldn’t have mattered. His past was well known among the black brothers (and so circulated easily at supper when wine flowed), and was the subject of much scorn and derision. He’d been a prostitute in Oldtown. Born in a pleasure house, he’d grown surrounded by whores and had grown to become one himself.

While this changed Aegon’s measure of the lad some, he was not as instinctually revulsed as the Westerosi men here tended to be. Male whores were not _accepted_ exactly in the Free Cities (for the most part), but they were known. What a man partook in was his concern, and most did not dig deeply into others’ habits and tastes. Satin proved to be likeable, and his desire to improve was admirable. Aegon had no quarrel with him.

And when a man took the black, their pasts were meant to be forgotten, or at least forgiven. _Men here have done worse than lay with another man._

Pyp’s jest at least was not exactly an offense to Aegon. Satin was a well-made youth, with handsome features. They were of an age (roughly), but Aegon’s build was taller and stronger. A similarity to Satin was not something he would frown upon. Aegon knew that had he not had Jon frowning down on him every time a pretty girl had looked his way, he would have spent his years in Essos traveling from one woman’s arms to another’s.

But even Jon’s disapproving glares and stern lectures on propriety had not kept him maiden. _Oh, Rajja_.

Finally, after days of stalling and countless defeats of the Night’s Watch recruits (and on Duck as well), Aegon could no longer argue with himself. He bid Duck and the recruits good afternoon, and marched to the stout wood and stone keep that housed the maester, his assistant, and the host of ravens they tended to.

The past days had been sunny enough, so the ground was hard beneath his feet rather than the soft slush of recently melted snow it had been when they had first arrived. Black brothers milled about, seeing to their daily chores. A few rolled barrels from the storerooms and toward the common hall. Owen the Oaf, tall and blond and friendly as he was dimwitted, was hauling a large crate from the armory, from where Aegon could hear the one-armed smith Donal Noye hard at work.

Aegon prided himself on his ability to quickly remember faces and names. Jon and Lemore had pounded the skill into him from a very young age, though the purpose had not been clear until he discovered his identity. _A king must know more men than he can count_.

When the men weren’t at their tasks, they tended to gather around the brazier’s that dotted the grounds of Castle Black. Warmth was always a pleasure this far north, and those shared warmings of hands were where Aegon had heard many a story. There, and in the common hall whenever food was served.

Finding the door to the Maester’s quarters, Aegon gave it a firm knock. He heard quiet shuffling from behind the door, and upon it creaking open, saw the aged form of Maester Aemon’s assistant. He knew it to be him, because he had seen him fetch meals from the common hall and he knew that Aemon seldom left his own rooms. Clydas was an old man, hunched, short, and decidedly round. he stared forcefully with pinkish eyes that were clearly ill accustomed to brightness; Haldon had said he was half blind, and Aegon believed it.

Clydas’s dim pink eyes probed searchingly at his face. “I do not know you. Are you one of the recruits?” His voice was faint.

“Ah, no,” Aegon replied. “I’m Griff, the younger one. Of Haldon’s party?” He hoped the man’s memory was better than his eyes.

Recognition flared, and the man smiled. He was an ugly old man, so it distorted his features almost grotesquely. “Yes, yes. Haldon has made mention of you, please come in.” Clydas stepped aside and pulled the door open wider to allow easier entrance.

Entering the room, Aegon felt a wave of warmth. Nearly every building at Castle Black was kept quite warm by diligent stewards and countless burning hearths, but this one was almost stuffy to Aegon. He loosened the outer layer of his thick wool garments.

“Haldon has been a great boon,” Clydas said as he closed the door. “Since Samwell left on the ranging, reading letters and books to Maester Aemon has been my duty.” The man coughed a wet laugh. “I can tend to the ravens, and help Maester Aemon around Castle Black, but my eyes have long since passed their prime, Young Griff.”

“He told me that he has been helping to preserve some of the decaying texts,” Aegon said, a frown curling his lips, “but I didn’t know that he was reading your letters as well.” Aegon trusted Haldon, but the fact that the Night’s Watch would so trust an outsider was somewhat alarming.

Clydas studied him, evaluating, “The Night’s Watch is a servant of the realm as a whole. And that aside, we get little nowadays that could not be freely told to even the lowest black brother.” He gestured for Aegon to follow. “The Night’s Watch has fewer learned men than it ever has, and those few we get, tend to be better used as rangers.”

Following behind the older man’s surprisingly quick shuffle, Aegon took off his most outer coat. The cold had bothered him least of any in their party, so it was actually rather too warm here.

“The gods are with you,” Clydas said, “Maester Aemon often takes short rests this time of day, but he is currently awake.” He stopped before a secondary inner door. This one was in better condition than the outer door. “These are his personal quarters,” Clydas continued. “If you require any assistance with him, I will be above,” he pointed up to the ceiling, “tending to the ravens. Do try not to rile him too much, he is old, and the Watch cannot afford to lose him.”

Aegon nodded, but felt a pang of guilt. If there was something that would rile him, a relative thought long lost might be it.

The stooping steward knocked lightly on the door and slid it open. “Maester Aemon, you have a visitor,” he called.

Aegon could barely make out the faint “Send him in,” that was the reply. Clydas gave him one last long look, and waived him ahead.

Maester Aemon’s room was somehow even warmer than the rest of the building, making Aegon glad that he had removed some of his clothing. Dragon Aemon may be, but age had plainly dulled the fire in his blood. The aged maester sat in a chair close to the fire, facing it head on. Another chair sat near Aemon’s.

“Come, sit,” Maester Aemon said. His voice was even frailer than Clydas’s.

Aegon took a hesitant first step. He realized suddenly that his heart was pounding in his chest. He couldn’t even see the old man’s face, and he was feeling… what? Anxious? Afraid? Excited? Aemon looked so small in the padded wooden chair, almost like a child. _A king afraid of a little old man?_ If only Duck could see him now.

Half to steady himself and half to perhaps shock his body into sensibility, Aegon struck himself in the chest with a clenched fist. He breathed deeply, each breath less ragged than the last. _Calm down,_ he thought. Then he crossed the room in a rush and took a seat.

He looked to the last living male Targaryen other than himself, and indeed, maybe the last other Targaryen entirely. What Aegon saw was a shrunken and shriveled old man. Not a hair remained on his head, not a single eyebrow or whisker on his face. The skin appeared stretched thinly across his round head, so that every vein, and even his skull itself was readily apparent. His eyes were clouded and milk white. A long and thick chain was draped around his neck, sagging low into his lap; a hundred metals decorated each link of the chain, and shined this color or that in the flashing of the fire.

For all that his age was almost terrifying, that he was nearly a specter, Maester Aemon looked kind. Laugh lines many times older than Aegon himself extended around his mouth, and his eyes, unseeing as they were, bore not an ounce of malice. Aemon’s blind eyes followed him, even as they could not pin him down. “Who do I have the pleasure of entertaining this afternoon?” Aemon asked softly.

Aegon squirmed in his hard seat. This one wasn’t padded like the other and was distinctly uncomfortable. “I–Well, that’s why I’m here,” he said finally.

The ancient maester hummed. “Are you one of Haldon’s number?” Aegon started, but before he could respond, the old man continued, “Your accent. I hear tinges of the Free Cities… Pentos, in particular, I believe.” He laughed. “You mask it well.”

His earliest years had been spent in Pentos, in the care of first Illyrio’s servants and then Lemore, before Jon had finally entered his life. While he had been raised on the Common tongue, those early years had colored him, and his continued exposure to the accents and varieties of language throughout Essos had engendered in him an appreciation of language that extended beyond strict, formally spoken common. Still, Jon, and then later Haldon, had made sure that few could pick out the remnants of the East in his voice.

He realized that he hadn’t responded, and that Aemon was still waiting for an answer. “Yes–No. I mean– I suppose it would be more accurate to say… that he’s one of mine.” Aegon gripped the armrests of the chair tightly, his nails digging in. His heart beat harder.

He’d never told anyone about who he was, not even on the few occasions he’d been allowed to get deep into his cups. He was told who he was, he’d never told anyone. It had never been his secret to share, but Jon’s, or Lemore’s, or even Illyrio’s or Varys’. But it was _his_.

“Oh?” Maester Aemon hummed again. “The Young Griff then? I labored under the delusion that it was your father who brought you here.” There was humor in the ghostly softness of his voice.

Clydas had said that Haldon had talked of him, so it shouldn’t have set him off balance to hear their years old cover story escape the old man’s lips, but it did. Griff. The Young Griff. The name that had been his, that had been his pride for so much of his life. A false name; a fiction. _No. Not false._ It wasn’t false, but it wasn’t the entire story.

 _Seven hells, why is this so difficult?_ Aegon let go of the hand rests. “Yes,” he said after far too long, “but also no. Griff fathered no sons, but he is still my father.”

Aemon simply nodded. “It is a good man that takes another’s son as his own, but there is more to this, I feel. More than an adoption.”

“There is,” Aegon said. “It’s–It’s about my sire.”

“Well I should hope it is not me,” Aemon said, offering a breathy laugh. It was disconcerting that the laughter couldn’t make it to his eyes. “Forgive an old man his humors, do continue.”

Aegon smiled, belatedly realizing that the old maester couldn’t see it. “Worry not,” he said. “Duck, he–my friend– he’s a man of many jests.” Coughing to try to clear his throat, Aegon tried to refocus. He’d been the one to make contact, but it felt as though he’d been the one cornered. “But my sire…. You knew him.”

Aemon shifted in his chair, turning to face Aegon directly. The milky white eyes couldn’t meet Aegon’s gaze, but he felt as though they pierced him nonetheless. “I have known many men.”

“This one was different. He wrote letters to you, I’m told.” He felt every breath in his chest. It was agonizing.

The old man’s brow furrowed, and his mouth began to move silently. “Many have written me letters, as maester–”

“Rhaegar Targaryen.” Aegon looked to the fire. “Rhaegar Targaryen,” he said again as his breathing gradually eased. He breathed in and out. His eyes turned back to the dim gaze of one of the last dragons. “My father was Rhaegar Targaryen.”

Aegon was acutely aware of Aemon’s breathing slowing. If this killed him, he didn’t know how he should ever forgive himself.

Finally, the ancient man’s lips cracked open. “A bastard?” he said, more to himself than Aegon. Then he shook his head vigorously, “No, no. He wasn’t–” Aemon stopped suddenly. “Unless… the girl–”

“No,” Aegon answered, summoning every ounce of kingly virtue he had. “Not a bastard, but trueborn. My mother was Princess Elia Martell of Dorne.”

That sunk the man back into silence, until, “…the babe Aegon–but how?”

And then it was as if a dam had broken, or a blade pulled from his chest; everything came pouring out. “The babe who died in the Sack was not Aegon Targaryen,” he said breathlessly, “he was an impostor, a pauper’s son traded for a jug of wine–one babe looks much like another and Gregor Clegane was a monster– and my mother, Elia, she was a part of the charade, sh–sh–she knew my grandfather was a madman, so she gave me to the Spider–and Varys could keep me safe by staying on the small council and ensuring no one knew of my survival–and after Viserys died I didn’t know if I would–”

“You are sure of this?” Aemon interrupted softly, voice torn halfway between hope and suspicion.

“Would I come all this way were I a mummer?” Aegon laughed derisively. “No, wait… I’m sorry, I mean–” He wracked his brain for the reasonable explanation he knew he had, “–my father, I mean Griff, the man who raised me. Griff is a falsity. He was a sellsword, yes, but before… he was more than that. He was–is Jon Connington.” Another pang of guilt. He hadn’t asked Jon if he could divulge that bit of information. “If any were to know the son of Rhaegar Targaryen…”

Aemon nodded slowly, “…it would be one of his boyhood friends, yes.”

“I know that it bears the stink of fiction,” Aegon said with a hard swallow, “but I didn’t believe it myself, when Jon told me... I’d spent my whole life learning history, sums, poetry, swordplay, songs, _everything_. We moved from place to place for all but my earliest childhood years, from Free City to Free City, I had dyed my hair blue for as long as I could remember. And then it all just shifted into place. The inconsistencies, the vagueness, the excuses. It all made sense… Once I got over my anger at them keeping it from me for so long, I asked about my family–about my house.” He stopped, tapping his fingers on the armrest.  

“No fell purpose brings me here, uncle,” Aegon continued. “Of that, you have my word.”

“Then what?” Aemon asked, breath bated and blind eyes wide. “Why here and now?”

“…I know the histories; I know the wars and the politics, but I do not know _who_ the Targaryens were. I would have the history of my family from a man who bore witness to it, from a man who might have been king.”

Aemon smiled a wide smile, one that touched even the milky whites of his eyes. “I never thought I would have this chance.” For a moment, Aegon thought the old man was beginning to choke and nearly jumped out of his seat.

Then Aegon saw Aemon Targaryen wipe away his tears with his long woolen sleeve and laugh lightly. Aegon turned his gaze to the roaring fire.

All he heard was his own shallow breathing, the crackling in the hearth, and the gradually fading hiccups of the old man bundled up like an infant. The fire consumed his sight in that moment, and for just a fraction of an instant, Aegon saw snow and eyes like blue stars. He jerked.

“There is one more thing.” he said unsteadily.

“Oh?” Aemon asked, smiling.

“I had a dream, you see. A dream about dragons.” He looked into the fire again. “About fire…”

Aemon’s smile crumpled and died, and the light that had seemed to gather in his eyes fled. “…and ice?” he whispered.

“And ice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much quicker turn around this time, woohoo! 10 chapters and over 40k words. Big milestone for me. Hope you all enjoy!


	11. Fires of the Dragonmont

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen has some questions; Shireen gets asked some questions

_ Chapter XI: The Fires of the Dragonmont _

Shireen knocked on the oaken door lightly. Like many doors in Dragonstone, it was ornate in its beauty. Despite the age of the castle, much of the furniture and fixtures had been kept in near pristine quality. The beauty of the door was marred somewhat by the subject of its numerous and intricate engravings.  _ Dragons,  _ she thought,  _ like almost everything else.  _ But she found that they did not bother her quite so much anymore.

It was a residual fear now, almost. A remembered one. The dragons sparked something in her, but she could not quite call it fear.

She knocked again.

Shireen had not had a nightmare in some time. Dragons still winged their way in and out of her dreams, but they weren’t trying to eat her anymore at least, so she had begun to sleep much more easily. Edric and Devan both had noticed. Patches hadn’t, but she knew not to blame him for such things.

She knocked one last time, harder than before.

Before, she had always felt a little lost without someone at her side. She liked Edric best, then Devan, then mother or father. Patches was almost always there too, whether anyone else was or not, but lately she felt more comfortable moving about the castle by herself. So Patches was left to play in Aegon’s Garden, or to wheedle treats from the cooks more often than ever before. Devan appreciated it greatly.

When she heard movement behind the door, she suddenly wished that she had brought Patches along after all.

The door opened inward with nary a creak, and behind it Shireen saw the woman she had come to have words with.

The Lady Melisandre stood tall and beautiful even in her confusion. She wore a gown that was less striking than her usual: the red duller, and the cut more modest. Her brilliant red hair was pulled back rather than flowing freely. She looked down at Shireen, unpainted lips ever so slightly agape and graceful eyebrows raised.

“Princess!” She said, her tone betraying her surprise. She bowed her head quickly and then moved aside. “Please, do come in.”

Shireen smiled a shaky smile and then entered the room, feeling as though it was more a dragon’s maw than Silverwing outside her room had ever been. Hearing Lady Melisandre close the door shut behind her, Shireen looked around the room.

A tall looking glass was near the room’s sole window, and a large copper tub was pushed away near it. Shireen spied a common chair on the other side of the tub.

A great carved chest sat squat on the far end of the room. It looked about large enough for Shireen and Devan both to fit inside it, with some room to spare. Runes in a tongue she did not know stretched across the wood, but Shireen thought she spied a few she did understand.  _ High Valyrian, then? _

An austere bed marked the right border of the room. It was in many ways unlike her own, but what was most stark was that it looked all but undisturbed. Shireen did not know who was allowed into Lady Melisandre’s personal quarters other than her mother and father, and none of the three of them would be skilled as maids, she’d think. Only a single unadorned pillow lay at the bed’s head. It was unspoiled.

Besides the fire blazing brightly in the hearth, there were several simple iron braziers dotting the room, each filled with finely chopped wood and burning high. A number of wall sconces held torches that burned even as Shireen stared. The room was incredibly warm and very bright; the window and hearth alone would have provided more than enough light, as it was the middle of the day and there was plenty of sun left. Shadows danced wildly on every surface and across the walls.

Melisandre marched across the room, procuring the chair that had been all but hidden behind the tub. She placed it near the larger and more ornate one that had been sitting before the fireplace already. The red priestess sat in the simpler chair and beckoned to the more comfortable looking one.

“Please princess, come sit by the fire with me.”

Shireen hesitated. She had not intended to do something so formal, had she? She was fairly sure she had only meant to have a simple conversation with the woman, but here and now it seemed as though her thoughts had scattered to the wind. She stared at the shadows on the walls. It was only when Melisandre’s still graceful lips curved into a frown that she was finally jogged from her inaction. Shireen hurried to her chair and all but fell into her chair.

Smoothing her dress quickly and skillfully (as she was well used to mussing up her dress when playing with Edric, Devan, or Patches), Shireen looked to the older woman.

Melisandre smiled. “I admit, Princess, it is a wonder to receive you. Your mother or father, I have come to expect, but I believe this is the first occasion in which you have sought me out alone. What brings you to me this day?”

Shireen grabbed a fistful of her dress, gripping it tightly. Her thoughts still whirled around in her head, and she just could not master her words. Why  _ had _ she come? She had a reason, did she not? A log crackling and spitting sparks drew her eyes from her lap to the hearth, and suddenly she remembered her purpose.

“Do you remember, my lady, when you came to my personal quarters?” She belatedly realized she had forgotten her courtesies. “And thank you, for allowing me to use your seat.” She offered the red woman her most beatific smile, but she knew it was as a candle to the priestess’s shining star. Even if the greyscale had not marred her face as it did, she knew that her smile would never have been a thing to behold.

“You are most welcome,” the Lady Melisandre said, “the king and queen both prefer to stand, so I have had little use of a second chair of quality,” She patted the simple wooden chair she sat on, “but this will serve for the nonce.” She smiled again. “And yes, my princess, I do recall.”

“Why did mother ask you to speak with me?” She massaged the smooth fabric in her hands. “You never did say, my lady.”

The red priestess’s smile fell. “Your mother the queen worries for you. She wishes for you to find the Lord’s light, as she and his grace have.” Melisandre looked to the hearth quickly, but her gaze returned to hold her own in an instant. “I had my own reason as well. As I had said, your father sees more than ever in the fires, and I thought that you might share his gift. Rh’llor’s ways are mysterious, but there is an order to them, however strange it may seem to outsiders.”

Shireen chewed her lip. Edric had seemed to believe her when she told him of her vision, and so they had spent the day digging through the ruins of the old sept. Besides the pretty stone (that she kept in her room even now), they had found nothing of value. He hadn’t spoken of visions to her since, and she hadn’t had another besides. Devan had been amazed though, when she told him. He believed in Rh’llor wholeheartedly, and so any such visions were astounding to him. Later, she had returned to the sept with him, but he had found nothing among the stones either. She hadn’t told her mother though. And her father… he had only recently begun to be seen around the castle again. He had little time for her.

“I had a vision… after you left, my lady,” she finally managed.

Melisandre shifted slightly, then leaned forward. “And what was it, my princess?”

“The dragon–the one outside my room, carved into the walls– it came alive, and it flew around Dragonstone. It roosted on the ruins of the old sept, by Aegon’s Garden.” She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I went to the sept after, with cousin Edric, but we couldn’t find anything.”

Light danced in Melisandre’s red eyes; they seemed almost to glow in the firelight. “Princess, these are wonderful tidings. The dragon, it was stone, then?” At Shireen’s nod, Melisandre sat tall again, shifting, shivering.

“W–What does it mean?” Shireen asked shyly.

Lady Melisandre leaned forward again, the shivers seemingly leaving her. “That… That is harder to say. Priests of Rh’llor spend many years, nearly a lifetime, learning to interpret that which the Lord has graced us the sight of.”

She remembered her great uncle, Ser Axell; he claimed visions, loudly and often. “But mother’s uncle Ser–”

Melisandre shook her head firmly. “Ser Axell is a worthy champion of Rh’llor, but the visions he claims… they are more wishful thinking; he sees what he cares to see in the fires.” She held up a graceful hand. “A single vision might have a thousand meanings, my princess. It could be that it signified the triumph of Rh’llor over the false gods called the Seven. It could be that dragons will again come to Dragonstone.”

“The dragons are just stone though, are they not?” Shireen asked, the remnants of old fears leaking into her voice.

“Do you believe in the Lord?” Melisandre asked.

Shireen stared, confused by the non-answer.

Did she? Did she not? Why not? Devan was good, and he believed in the Lord of Light. Mother and father were both good, and they believed too. Cressen had not, but he was gone now. Pylos did not say. She’d had the vision though. She stared into the fire and was granted a vision: Silverwing come alive and flying proudly. Was it so different from a dream though? Everyone had dreams.

“… I don’t know.”

Melisandre hummed. “Why? Is your love for the Seven so great?”

Shireen gripped her dress tightly, chewing her lip. “The nightfires, the prayers… they’re frightful.”  _ And the burnings, _ she thought,  _ the burnings are terrible. _

A frown marred Melisandre’s fair countenance, for even unpainted she was beautiful. She stood suddenly and closed the short gap between her seat and the hearth. She draped herself over the edge and looked into it, almost longingly. “Princess, might I ask for your assistance?”

She lost her grip on her dress. “Me? What could I do that father or mother could not?”

“His grace is many things,” Melisandre replied, smiling. “But he was never a devout believer in your Seven. He disdained them, even as he allowed worship to remain on Dragonstone. I remember when I first came to Dragonstone, Princess, and he disdained me just as well.” She laughed. It was not the high laughter of the ladies of the capital, but something low, and musical. “Her grace is his very opposite. She believes most fervently; she wishes to spread Rh’llor’s light to all, to every corner of these great Seven Kingdoms. In her profound love for our Lord, there are those things she misses. I miss much as well.”

“And me?” Shireen asked, still unsure.

Melisandre tore her gaze from the fire. “You, princess, still do not believe fully. Your mother the queen, and I myself, together we believe that you will soon find His warmth and light.” She paused. Then, almost furtively, asked, “What might I change? How might Rh’llor find his way into your heart?”

“I–hmm.” She looked into her lap and picked at the greyscale on her neck. “I’m not sure.”

With a flourish of her more understated dress, Melisandre returned to her seat. “Men think me a fanatic, my princess. They believe I do not hear their whispers, that I am blind to their stares. If it is my love of the one God that names me fanatic, then I am so. But it is Rh’llor who opened my eyes. It is Rh’llor who dulled the noise that clouded my ears. The Lord of Light saved me, and I would bring His rescue to all.”

Shireen thought instantly of Lord Guncer Sunglass. He had not been a favorite among her father’s bannermen, but he had been pious; he had been just. “Lord Sunglass,” she finally managed, barely above a whisper. “Why did you burn him? …Was  _ that _ rescue?”

Lady Melisandre’s eyebrows raised high. She did not speak for a time, instead pondering her question. “Do you recall why he was imprisoned, princess?” She asked finally.

“…He renounced his support of my father.”

Bowing her head, Melisandre continued, “Indeed. He would have taken his men and joined them to the false king’s banner. He would have fought your father, his rightful lord and king, for the crime of his devotion to Rh’llor. If they met on the battlefield, mayhaps he would have killed your father.” A pause. “Treason is punished harshly here in Westeros, is it not?”

Treason was often met with death. “Yes,” Shireen mumbled, before finding her strength, “but he could have asked for the Wall! He did not have to die like that.”

“Yes, princess, he could have been sent to the Wall… but many lords visit death upon the treasonous, and few voice such suspicions. It is a lord’s right to choose the fate of those who would wrong them so grievously.” Melisandre’s rich voice softened. “It was Her Grace that bade me offer Lord Sunglass to Rh’llor.”

Shireen looked down, feeling the bite of tears in her eyes. She rubbed at them with her sleeve, managing to fight down any more but the first few droplets. She hadn’t known that. Her father had been gone, fighting at the Blackwater, and she supposed she had simply thought it had been Melisandre taking the initiative. She thought her mother might approve, but to be the one who  _ ordered  _ it…

“When the Andals came to Westeros, they did not come peaceably,” Melisandre continued, “They burned the trees the First Men called gods, they killed their high priests and the so-called Children of the Forest, they conquered and raped and did it all in the name of their Seven.” She laughed suddenly, jarring Shireen. “That is not to say that the First Men were any better. They adopted their so-called Old Gods only after many years of war and death, and before the Andals came, they offered sacrifice to their gods at the end of a knife.”

She knew all of this, if only vaguely. Pylos had mentioned it, and her mother had alluded to it in the years since her conversion. It wasn’t something that Septon Barre had talked about.

“Some will burn, yes, but it is a pure death. It is the only way for such men to find their way to the Lord in death, and if an unrepentant man is to die, I would call such an execution rescue. I would not bring Rh’llor to the Seven Kingdoms as the Andals brought their Seven false gods.” She leaned closer, her crimson eyes pleading. “So, please, princess, what might I do to sway men to see Rh’llor’s light?”

Shireen felt a pinch of pain, and realized she had accidentally drawn blood chewing her lip. She brought her sleeve up quickly, patting at the small wound. “I’m sorry,” she said, “Please give me a moment, my lady.” She alternated between sucking on her lip and dabbing at it, thinking on the red priestess’s questions all the while. When the slight flow of blood finally ceased, she had an answer.

“Whenever mother and I attended prayer at the sept, there would be songs.”

Melisandre arched an eyebrow. “I sing,” she said, the smallest hint of affront in her tone.

Shireen fought her instinct to back down. “Y–You do, my lady, but not in our tongue. So if… if the songs were in the Common tongue, then we could sing with you.”

“It is no easy feat to bring a song from one language to another, princess. Meaning is lost.”

She almost bit her lip again. “…I always felt closer to the Seven when I sang. So… perhaps everyone else would too, if they could sing.” Shireen looked to the fire. “It might not feel so foreign, that way,” she said softly.

Melisandre said nothing, but stroked her chin silently.

Staring into the fire, Shireen thought of her great uncle, and his supposed visions.  _ Ser Axell is still a good man though, right? She said he was a champion.  _ With that, another thought occurred to her.  _ A champion! _

“Knights, Lady Melisandre!” blurted Shireen.

“Knights?”

Shireen nodded excitedly. “Every boy wants to be a knight when he becomes a man!” She thought of Devan, who even now squired for her father. “Knights protect the weak and the innocent; they’re just and good and they swear vows before the Seven. Why does Rh’llor not have his own?”

“Why indeed…” Melisandre said. “There is the Fiery Hand in Volantis, but there are only ever one thousand. It is not a calling a common man would aspire to.” The red woman smiled. “New vows, a new ceremony… It could be done.”  Melisandre stood then, and held a long, graceful hand out to Shireen. “I thank you princess, sincerely. You have given me much to ponder.”

Shireen took her hand and rose as gracefully as she could, as it was not natural to her the way that it was for her mother or the red priestess.  

“Perchance, would you care to walk with me in… let us say two hours?”

She had never had a lady-in-waiting. Her mother had a handful, but the queen favored Melisandre above them all. She could not even recall the last time a woman besides her mother had asked to walk with her.  _ Myrcella, maybe? _

Shireen offered her a smile. “I... suppose I could, Lady Melisandre.”

“I will come to your chambers,” Melisandre said, before bowing elegantly. “Until later.”

As Shireen left the Lady Melisandre’s room, she could not fight the feeling that she had been of greater use to the red priestess than Melisandre had been to her. She almost felt as though Melisandre had found her in the halls, when in fact she had been the one to initiate the conversation.  

Her questions had been answered, at least in part, but yet greater questions still lingered about in her head.

_ Do I believe in the Seven? Or the Lord of Light? _

-

Shireen spent the hours between her meetings with the red priestess doing what she might do on any normal day. She had attended lessons with Maester Pylos, Devan, and Edric in the morning, and it was only an urgent duty that Pylos had to see to that allowed her to find the time to meet Melisandre in the first place. Usually, lessons extended much further into the day.  Whenever such a thing occurred and she had time to herself, she tended to play, but nagging thoughts had drawn her to the red priestess instead.

Now, Devan and Edric had surely occupied themselves with their own activities or duties, and she did not want to disturb them. So, she did what she had always done prior to Edric’s arrival on Dragonstone, and decided to find Patches instead.

She found the tattooed fool curled up in a corner of the kitchens, fast asleep. He had probably gorged himself on whatever treats the cooks had offered him, and then, full and bored, decided to take a nap. Most of the cooks didn’t like Patches as much as she did, and so tended to give him whatever foods he wanted to get him to stop troubling them. Sleeping peacefully, his thick, chubby face was more serene than it ever was when he was awake. She couldn’t bring herself to wake him.

So, Shireen went to her room.

The halls of Dragonstone had taken a very different air to her, in recent weeks. Whereas the bustle prior to the Battle of the Blackwater had been soothing to her (and the deference of men-at-arms had always brought a blush to her cheeks and a stammer to her lips), the quiet of the time since had at first been stifling. The hellhounds and the dragons and the demons that decorated every wall of the Valyrian strongholds had stood out all the more without men in their shiny mail and plate milling about.

Now though, they were not quite so frightening. The hellhounds looked almost comical at certain angles, and the snarling demons reminded her of Edric trying to act the evil king in their games. Even the dragons were not so bad these days. Before, she had seen only thirst for blood. She had seen the monsters of the Dance, the beasts that savaged princelings and left only a leg of Rhaenyra for the Stranger. The Black Dread that destroyed the mightiest castle ever built and the sowers of the Field of Fire.

She saw more of Silverwing these days, and Vermithor before he had been claimed by the dragonseed. She saw the might and majesty of the dragon kings that had forged seven kingdoms into one. She saw graceful creatures that were gone from the world and would never return. She saw serenity where she had first seen rage.

The men themselves now felt different, as well. Before, Shireen had seen many a bowed head and an empty stare. She saw men consumed by the scars they now bore.

But ever since Ser–no  _ Lord  _ Davos returned, there had been something different about them. Only the Queen’s Men had walked with pride and purpose, but now that had spread. Men that once all but hunched now walked tall and straight, heads held high and a spark of divine defiance in their eye.

Devan had been happier too.  _ Everyone _ had thought the Onion Knight dead, and with four of his brothers gone, Devan had simply assumed the same of his father. He had been different in those weeks before his father had returned. The imprisonment of Davos had put a damper on it, but his subsequent elevation to Hand had been a most efficient salve.

Her mother, however, had not been pleased. Nor Ser Axell. Mother had born the perceived insult well in public, but when it was only the two of them, she despaired her father’s choosing of the nonbeliever over the loyal, and devout, Ser Axell Florent.

Shireen was happy that Davos had returned, if only for the selfish reason that it seemed to have improved her father’s mood. He had entrenched himself in the Chamber of the Painted Table since the Blackwater, but since Davos had been elevated to Hand, he had been seen walking the Castle Halls again. Despite her mother’s misgivings over Lord Davos, even she had been pleased to see the king depart his isolation.

Offering Silverwing, whose mouth encircled the door to her chambers, a smile, Shireen entered her room. She was pleased to see that Dalla had not let her hearth gutter out (as she had done a time or two), but she knew that she would not have complained either way. The wages Dalla earned here helped her family down in one of the villages at the foot of the Dragonmont, and Shireen would not be the reason Dalla’s family went hungry. Dalla had tidied up her room some as well, but Shireen tended not to make a mess, so in that respect, Dalla’s duties were not difficult.

Shireen went to her bed; as large and ornate as it was unneeded. She had not exactly wanted a bed of such magnitude, but her mother had insisted. Four of her could sleep side-by-side and there would still be room to spare; when she had first begun to sleep in it, she had felt as though she was drowning in its blankets and immense softness. She had become used to it. Shireen knelt before the bed.

One benefit of such a monster of a bed was that it sat quite high, and so during games she could hide under it with ease. Edric had quickly become wise to this hiding spot, but it had been fun while it had lasted. Beyond her own body, she could also store her personal chest beneath the bed frame. She grabbed onto the handle and pulled out the chest with a strain and a huff.

It was far smaller than Melisandre’s, but still very decorative in its own way. It did not have the engravings in another other languages, but for that lack it had a great number of engraved illustrations instead. Prancing stags, defiant stags, stags of every shape and style. It was one of relatively few gifts from her father; her seventh nameday loomed large in her memory in her memory in major part due to this gift.  

She rubbed her hands over her favorite stag, feeling the grooves and shape of it. It was near the left side, and had its head bowed low, as if in feeding. Many of the stags looked ready to fight, but this one was peaceful.

Opening the chest, she saw her keepsakes. Each of her most favorite gifts and possessions sat in this chest. A glittering gold necklace with an ornament of a graceful crowned doe that Myrcella had given her ( _ I took it from mother, _ Myrcella had whispered conspiratorially, she _ never wears it, so she won’t notice. _ ). A silver bracelet decorated to look like the thorny branches of a rosebush from Uncle Renly ( _ Fit for a princess,  _ he’d said with a smile). An adorable stuffed cat from Tommen ( _ I know your dad doesn’t like cats, so you can have one of mine!).  _ She sought none of these though, and instead withdrew the two least delicate objects in the chest: a thick and sturdy tome and the purple stone she had found with Edric.

The tome was a gift from Maester Cressen, one of the few things she owned that served as a reminder of the man who’d been all but her grandfather.  _ If my grandfathers still lived, I’d hope they would be like Cressen,  _ she thought.

_ ‘The Life and Reign of King Daeron the Good’  _ was written in broad gold lettering, covering over half of the front cover. Maester Cressen had always said that it was important to learn what one could from the great men of history, and after the death of Uncle Robert, he had focused yet greater effort on that goal.  _ There is much to imitate from the best kings and queens, _ he had told her,  _ but there is just as much that might be improved.  _ She had never read the book in its totality, but she had started anew, making her way slowly but steadily through the dense historical account.

The stone… the stone was simply something she liked to hold on to. Cousin Edric hadn’t thought it anything special, but Devan had liked the look of it. She had let him hold it though, and he had noticed nothing amiss. Even now, the stone was warm to her touch, but only she seemed to have realized it. For some reason, she found herself at a loss for words when she thought she might tell Edric or Devan.

The thought of bringing the stone to mother or father… it caused a shiver to run up her spine. It was hers. She wanted to keep it.

Book and stone in hand, Shireen retired to her plush reading chair, sitting cross legged. She had asked for it when she had finally mastered reading to an extent that she could read without assistance. Before Edric (and Devan too), she had spent much more time reading. As much as she loved Patches, she could not play with him all day.

Resting the purple stone between her legs and holding the book on her lap, she cracked it open and turned to where she had left off. Last she had read, Daeron had only recently become king. He had granted his half-brother Daemon land for a keep off the Blackwater Rush.

Daeron had been good to his brother. It pained her to think of what she knew was coming between the two of them.

_ Why must brothers always fight? _

-

By the time Lady Melisandre was due to arrive, she had read through Daeron’s organization of his small council in the wake of his father’s death, and his attempts to root out the corruption that flowed from King Aegon the Unworthy like a river from a mountain. She had begun to read through the arrangements he made that united Dorne to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms; the politics of it all made her head spin, but as her father’s heir, she felt it was her duty to try to understand. When she went to put away the tome and stone, she lay the book down securely, with the page she had left on marked by a colored bit of parchment, but found herself unable to lay the stone beside it.

She felt the purple stone, with its almost scales and oddly spherical shape. She traced the glints of silver that shone when she turned it about in her hands. The warmth radiated from it even then, though now she could at least believe it was because it had been between her legs. It was almost… entrancing to feel it in her hands at times.

Shireen found herself walking to the edge of the hearth and staring into it expectantly. She turned the stone over, feeling its deceptively light weight. She took a hesitant step forward then–

A sharp knock cut through the fog she hadn’t realized had fallen over her.

In a sudden hurry, Shireen did something her mother had always frowned on, she stuffed the stone down her shirt and into the folds of fabric of her under-dresses. Sometimes she hid snacks for herself or Patches, but it was always hard to withdraw anything without someone noticing. Other dresses she had featured pockets sown into the outer layers, but this was not one of those few. Luckily, this  _ was _ one of her puffier dresses, or a bulge in her chest would have been noticeable.

Why she did this instead of simply putting in the chest, Shireen could not say, but in that moment she did  _ not _ want to part from it. She rushed to her bedside, shut the chest firmly, clasped the top shut, and pushed it back under her bed, then walked quickly to the door.

“My lady,” she greeted, as she opened the door and came face to face with the red priestess.

“Princess,” Melisandre replied with a half-bow. Her face was now painted lightly, and her lips ruby red. The gown she wore was not the drabber one Shireen had seen earlier, but the sharp and tight-fitting silks she wore during her ceremonies (Uncle Renly would have known what silks exactly). Her ruby necklace glittered at her neck as it always did and her hair shone.

Shireen was always stricken by the red woman’s beauty. Of all the women she had ever known, she could only consider Cersei Lannister to measure up to her.

For all that she knew a woman’s worth was not in her beauty… it did not stop the jealousy that bubbled in her chest.

Melisandre’s head quirked to the side. “Shall we go, my princess?”

“Yes, of course.

Shireen followed Melisandre through the halls of Dragonstone, any men or maids they approached quickly removing themselves from their path with deference. Tall and long-legged, Melisandre could cover ground much more quickly than Shireen could, but she slowed her stride so that Shireen would not have to chase after her. Shireen would be tall one day, she knew (for her father was dwarfed by incredibly few, and her mother looked down on many men), but that was still some time away.

Gesturing to a carved dragon as they passed it, Melisandre finally spoke up. “His Grace once mentioned your fear of these gargoyles. Do you fear them still, my princess?” Her tone was delicate, not accusatory.

“Not quite so much… anymore.” She clutched at the side of her dress. “I hated walking in the halls when I was small.”

Melisandre nodded. “Even His Grace has his fears,” she paused thoughtfully, “I too bear my own. There is no shame in fear, there is shame in falling prey to it.”

Shireen had heard similar from Cressen and Pylos both, but it was a new thing to hear of the red woman’s fears. She had seemed ever fearless in her exultations at the nightfires.

“…Are we going somewhere in particular, my lady?”

“Yes,” Melisandre said simply, “somewhere I have taken His Grace many a time.”

Rather than climbing the Stone Drum, Shireen followed Melisandre down it. She found a path she had never seen and a tunnel she hadn’t imagined. Soon, the stone walls and carved dragons gave way to earth, and pockets of … something shiny… and black in the earthen walls. It began to grow warmer and warmer, and then there were stairs, so many stairs all going down and deeper.

Melisandre continued to climb down, seemingly completely unwinded by the long path or the ever-growing heat, though she slowed as Shireen did. Shireen fought to keep her breathing steady and ladylike, but soon forfeited, and her breath came harder. She begged a break, but as soon as she caught her breath, they were moving again.

Torches lined the earth walls, and the shiny black glittered in their light.

“What is it?” she asked, pointing it out.

“In the old Valyrian tongue, it is frozen fire. In yours…” She stopped along side a large patch of it and caressed it lightly, “dragonglass by most, obsidian by fewer.”

Shireen nodded in recognition, as she knew both of those names. Cressen had once said that Dragonstone was full of obsidian, but she had never seen much in the way of it; now she knew where it was. When they continued to move, Shireen paid closer attention to the veins of dragonglass that ran through the walls and was surprised to notice that not  _ all  _ of it was black. As they went deeper, she saw that some would shine green in the torchlight. Reds and purples were less common, but they were beautiful all the same.

Then, in what seemed to happen in an instant, they had escaped the cramped tunnels and stairs. A monumental cavern expanded out beyond Shireen, and despite the absence of torches, the space was more than well lit. Obsidian glittered and shined all throughout her sight, bits and pieces in the ground and the walls.

“Mind your step, princess,” Melisandre said with a sweep of her hand, “the footing is treacherous. Follow.”

Shireen hewed close to Melisandre then, as Melisandre made her way more carefully forward into the bowels of the hollow. Despite the increasing heat, Shireen discovered that she felt exhilarated; she felt alive. Her breathing came easier, somehow.

The red priestess flung out an arm, blocking her, and almost knocking Shireen to the ground. When she returned to her feet, she looked down, and saw it, and her breath was gone again.

A great shaft extended downward before her, and all throughout it roiled and bubbled something red and bright and terrible. Smoke drifted from the glowing redness as if from a fire. She could hardly look at it. The brightness and the smoke alike stung at her eyes.

“The blood of the earth flows in the Dragonmont,” Melisandre said. “Such places are the closest one may come to Rh’llor while one draws breath.” The ruby about her neck glowed, Shireen noticed, brighter than she had ever seen it.

Shireen felt the stone warm against her chest as she stared into the fires of the earth; it seemed to… pulsate, almost along with her heartbeat.

Standing alongside her, Melisandre began to sing.

It was a low song, with a swaying rhythm and a mourning tone. Shireen knew not the words, but whatever its meaning or significance, it was beautiful. It was not one of the songs she had heard the red priestess chant at the nightfires, but it shared a certain similarity to them. Perhaps if–

–she heard a noise behind her and whipped around sharply. The song stopped.

A towering figure loomed near the entrance to the cavern.

“Shireen?” it asked in the rumbling voice of Stannis Baratheon. He walked forward, his face becoming clear in the light of the earthfires.

She had not seen her father this closely since before the Battle of the Blackwater… and he did not look well. Grey had appeared in his beard in shocks, when before it had been all black. His eyes were sunken, and his cheekbones more pronounced. He had aged years, it seemed, in the weeks since she had seen him last.

“Father?” she said.

For all that he appeared weak in visage, he still walked with strength and purpose. Broad shouldered and long of leg, her father was a terror to behold when angered. “What are you doing here, daughter?”

“Lady Melisandre asked that I walk with her,” she answered.

His blue eyes, shifted to Melisandre. “Did she now?”

“Your Grace,” Melisandre said, bowing, “The princess has given me much to think on this day; I thought to show her the fires in return.”

Her father looked between the two of them, his eyes boring into each of them in turn. Then, he grunted and, in a couple long strides, stood beside Shireen.

Shireen didn’t know what to say… or what to do… so she did nothing. She enjoyed the presence of her father as best she could, and she stared out into the fires. She heard only the noises of the earth and fire, and the breathing of the man and woman to each side of her. Melisandre made no mention of her god, and father said nothing else.

She felt the stone burn hot at her chest.

Tentatively, she reached out and slipped her arm around her father’s. He jerked, but she held tight.

She looked up to her father and smiled a wobbly smile. He gazed down to her, and something washed over his face; something she could not read.

For just an instant, Shireen thought she saw a dragon in the fires. Purple and silver and beautiful, it was. And then it was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo a Shireen chapter. Hope y'all enjoyed. Soon there will be far fewer Aegon chapters, proportionally to how many there've been up till now.
> 
> I know Melisandre isn't mega well liked in the fandom, but I think she's fun. I'm not trying to whitewash her, so I hope it didn't come off that way. I'm really not a big fan of bashing OR glorifying, so I try not to do either.
> 
> Thank you to Queefqueen (amazing name) for beta-ing :)


	12. Ill Tidings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sworn Brothers begin returning to Castle Black; Aegon ponders their news

_Chapter XII: Ill Tidings_

It was shortly after the turn from one month to the next that Jarman Buckwell and his scouting party returned from beyond the Wall. Aegon had spent the weeks between living as he always had: seeing to his lessons as regularly as he should and making himself useful elsewise. Hours beyond count in the practice yard, helping the stewards with timber collection and distribution, seeing to some amount of prayer with Lemore while she endeavored to improve the sept, pumping the bellows in the armory, instruction on some topic with Haldon or Jon, and so on. It was not the most exciting life he had ever lived, but time passed nonetheless.

During those weeks, he lived for his conversations with Aemon. He could not spend as much time with the old man as he’d have liked, for going too often would surely arouse the suspicions of the black brothers, and the maester had his own duties to tend to besides. He learned much of the family he had never known in those talks.

Aemon spoke of Daeron the Drunken, the eldest son of King Maekar’s brood. He spoke of his cowardice and his sloth, but he spoke of the treats he had snuck a young Aemon at the dinner table as well. He told of the expectations their father bore for his firstborn, that Daeron never had the will or ability to measure to.

Aerion Brightflame, a man who had become legend and cautionary tale both, came to life in the tellings of Maester Aemon. Half mad and entirely cruel, Aerion was every inch the monster the stories spoke of. But Aemon remembered the times before his cruelty became stone in the man. He remembered playing knights with the boy who would one day drink wildfire.

Daella was sweet in character and sweeter in voice, Aemon claimed. Her songs were as beautiful as she was, and she had been a highly sought after match in her time. Of his siblings, Aemon had been closest to Daella, at least until Maekar attempted to make more of a man of Aemon. Still, Aemon recounted the games they would play, and the stories he read to her when she had her nightmares.

The fifth king Aegon had been a boy when Aemon swore himself to the Citadel, but, Aemon said, it was clear that he had always been the best of Maekar’s sons. Willful, stubborn, and impetuous at times, but caring and kind too. His journeys with Ser Duncan the Tall were beloved by the smallfolk, and changed the young Targaryen princeling into the champion of the common man he would become during his reign. “Egg”, Aemon called him.

Rhae, he knew the least, for she had been very young when he left to the Citadel. He had exchanged letters with her, as he had with all of his family, but she had been a rowdy youth who expected much and demanded more. She had written him of a love potion once, so that she might win Aegon’s affections from Daella, and he had played along. He made sure the recipe he sent her would not cause his youngest brother any real harm.

“My brothers,” Aemon had said, “each of them were consumed by dreams of dragons. They heard the wings and the roars in their thoughts, and each of them burned up in their flames. Daeron found his end at the bottom of a bottle, and Aerion a bottle as well, though his of wildfire and not of wine. And Egg… the tragedy at Summerhall, the very night your father was born. And all for dragons.”

“And my father too,” Aegon had said. “His dreams killed him, or so Jon says.”

“And your father too.” Aemon had breathed a deep, shuddering breath then. “He wrote me of those dreams, of the prophecies. I told him what I knew, what I learned in my years of studies. In the end… those dreams took him too.”

“…Did you ever dream of dragons?”

Aegon had felt as though the maester’s blind eyes peered into his soul then, and the nod that followed was perhaps the slowest he had ever seen.

“I did… I still do.” Aemon shook his head. “Be wary of these dreams. Dragons were our glory, our power.” He reached out and took his hand. “They were our end.”

If nothing else, Aegon was glad to have come to the Wall for Aemon alone. Never had the Targaryens lived so vividly in his imagination as when Aemon spoke of them. Jon had known Rhaegar and Aerys, he knew, but that had been a Targaryen dynasty diminished; a stunted little thing at the end of its life. Aemon told of a house in resurgence under the wisdom of King Daeron the Good and his line.

Jarman Buckwell had returned late in the day, while the Night’s Watch supped in the common hall. Aegon had eaten quickly, and then brought out his harp from his quarters. He and Dareon took turns singing songs to the eager crowd of black brothers, who had had little in the way of music since Dareon had been sent to Eastwatch. The song of Azor Ahai had swiftly become a favorite among the black brothers, especially after Dareon had taken to merging it with the tale of the Last Hero. Scarce a dinner passed without the illustrious lyrics of Lightbringer cleaving through scores of Others washing over hungry Night’s Watch men.

Suddenly, something else had drawn their focus, and a clamor was heard outside the common hall. In what had seemed like moments, much of the hall was on their feet and rushing for the door. They had thought the ranging finally returned. It wasn’t until what felt like hours later that the truth of the matter had filtered through the ranks.

Buckwell had been sent out as one of three scouting parties from the Fist, and had been gone when the attack occurred. They had returned and seen only the results of the attack. “A hundred horse corpses,” one man had said, “but not a single man’s. Not a one.” After, they had shadowed the wildling host as close as they might, so as to measure its strength, then made for Castle Black.

It was not until near the end of the following day that the details had been made known. Buckwell had first told the most senior brothers: Marsh, Noye, and Aemon. Only after, were the rest allowed into their confidence. Marsh had told Jon everything almost immediately, so even had it been kept quiet, Aegon would have discovered the truth of it all.

Aegon and Dareon had found Pyp staring blankly into a brazier, that second night. “Do you believe it?”

“Believe what?” Aegon asked.

“About Jon, about Lord Snow.”

Aegon grimaced. “I didn’t know him,” he said, “but many a man thought good has turned his cloak.” Criston Cole, Daemon Blackfyre, Tywin Lannister…

“Dareon?” Pyp had turned to him, almost pleading.

Dareon looked ill. “I can’t say. You remember how he was back in the beginning. He beat us bloody, he did.”

“Maybe it weren’t him?” Pyp continued, “Maybe they made a mistake.”

“I heard they saw his wolf among the wildlings too.” Aegon had put a hand on Pyp’s shoulder and gripped tightly.

Pyp shook his head slowly. Then he put his head in his hands. They were quiet. “And what about Grenn and the rest?” he said, finally.

“Buckwell says they didn’t see a single body,” Dareon replied, more eagerly this time, “They could still be out there, making their way back.”

“I hope so, Dareon. I really do.”

There had been much chatter, in the wake of Buckwell’s return. The wildling host was truly massive, tens of thousands, and nearing on a hundred thousand if some were to be believed. Mammoths and giants walked among the ranks of Mance Rayder, they said. Aegon had been particularly astonished at that fact, for though he had come to fight the living dead, all had thought giants long extinct.

Haldon had begun digging into the records of the Watch with even greater fervor then, but found precious little on the matter of giants. It was amidst the Halfmaester’s searches, that Aegon realized if it came to fighting, they would need every able sword. Soon, he had managed to drag Haldon into the practice yard as well.

As time continued to pass, and there was less and less chance of the ranging returning in force, Jon became ever more blatant in his desire to leave while there was time. Even without a wight in hand (or pieces of one, at least), they might be able to bring the Golden Company to bear, he insisted. Letters were often less persuasive than reality, after all. But something kept Aegon planted where he was. For some indiscernible reason, he knew that the Wall was where he must needs be. Perhaps he did not want to leave Maester Aemon to his fate, perhaps he had grown attached to the black brothers, perhaps he felt that when the time came, there would be something only _he_ could do. He knew not the reason, but he knew he could not leave.

It was almost a fortnight later that the ranging finally did return. Aegon had just rung Duck’s helm like a bell when his attention was drawn away from their bout and toward the tunnel that led out beyond the Wall. Duck had struck him on the side in retaliation before he too realized something was amiss.

That the strike would cause bruising would be something Duck would later jeer at him over.

A dozen men exited the tunnel, each more haggard than the last. Each was thin, clearly having had little to eat in some time. Several walked with a limp, or needed support from another in order to keep moving. It was only after he heard the gate slam shut behind them that Aegon realized that this was it; this was what remained of the Great Ranging.

_Which one is Lord Commander Mormont?_

* * *

“They killed ‘im Pyp,” said the big man named Grenn. “They cut ‘im down, right in front of us.” He was as tall as Aegon and twice as broad, and with his beard and hair overgrown, he looked every bit the aurochs that was his sobriquet. He shook his head, his eyes blank and his stare vacuous.

“Why? What happened?” Pyp asked.

“We were starvin’. We needed food, and we asked for some more. Some o’ us thought Craster had to be hiding it somewhere. Then someone– Garth of Greenaway, I think– called ‘im a bastard and then he was dead and the Old Bear was yelling, and then he was dead too.”

Dareon was livid. “Who did it? Who killed the Old Bear?”

“It was Ollo,” Grenn replied.

“Ollo Lophand?”

“Aye, ‘twas him.”

Grenn had not been injured, and besides his hungry belly, was none the worse for wear. He had quickly broken off from the rest of the survivors and sought Pyp out. Dareon had been with Pyp, and Aegon had followed Dareon. Duck went where Aegon went. The five of them were huddled together in the armory, close enough to the forge that they were shielded from the cold.

“Who’re you?”  Grenn asked.

For a moment, Aegon did not realize the question had been directed at him. “Oh, me?” Aegon laughed flatly. He could only muster so much humor in the wake of everything Grenn had said. “I am Griff, and this is Ser Rolly. But I call him Duck.”

Duck merely nodded, not willing to play the game of the knight angry at his disrespectful squire. “I met Ser Alliser in Braavos,” Duck said, “so we have come to help.”

“If you’d come before…” Grenn blew air out his nose. “Bah. It’s not worth whinging about,” he said.

Dareon looked from Pyp to Grenn, a frown tugging at his lips. “What happened to Ser Piggy? He wasn’t one ‘o the traitors were he?”

Grenn shook his head vigorously. “No, he was with the Lord Commander when I saw him last. He was just sitting there. Me and Edd… we tried to get him to come with us, but he just sat there. The Old Bear was dying– we couldn’t save him, but Sam just sat there like…like he couldn’t see nothing.”

“So he might still be at this Craster’s, then?” Aegon asked.

Grenn shrugged. “He might be. They might have killed him. I don’t know.” When Pyp blanched, Grenn continued, “I tried to save him Pyp, I really did, but he just wouldn’t get up. And with Small Paul gone, I couldn’t–” A strange, reverent look flashed across the big man’s face. “I almost forgot–Sam– he killed an Other!”

“What?” Aegon said almost in unison with Pyp, Dareon, and Duck.

“After the Fist–” Aegon had forgotten about the Fist entirely. The news of the Lord Commander’s death and the mutiny had superseded everything else in his mind since the return of the ranging party. “–me and Small Paul, we were trying to make Sam walk, and Paul had to carry him most of the way, and suddenly it was _so cold_. So cold I could smell the cold. And it was there. An Other. Tall and long and thin as a blade. Like a man, but not. It wore armor like ice, and rode on a dead horse. It killed Paul, and then it went for Sam, and Sam stabbed it with a dragonglass dagger and then it just–it melted away. It fell apart and turned to water and mist–and all that was left was the dagger. Sam killed it.”

Of them, only Duck managed to subdue his awe enough to respond. “So it was the Others then? That attacked at the Fist? We thought it might have been the wildlings.”

Bobbing his head up and down quickly, Grenn continued. “It was the Others. Wights, mostly, I didn’t see an Other till the end, when Sam killed it.” His eyes became glazed. “There were thousands of ‘em. Brothers, and wildlings, and even a bear. I heard some talk of giants, too. They were everywhere… It was all we could do to escape with our lives. Only fire held them back, but we ran out of fire. It was so cold, and there was so much snow.”

Aegon thought of his dream. “The Other,” he said, “its eyes, were they blue?”

“Shining blue,” Grenn replied. “It looked right through you, like it didn’t even notice we were there, except to kill us.” He shivered. “But all of their eyes were blue, all of the wights… Even the bear had blue eyes. The Other though, it had the bluest eyes. Blue and terrible.”

It confirmed everything then. In Haldon’s studies, as well as his own during the time he spent with Aemon, they had been unable to uncover any hard information concerning the Others. There were legends aplenty, but nothing a maester would lend any credence to. Here it all was, though. Snow and cold, and blue, blue eyes. An army of the dead that would only grow as its enemies fell. Every worry that had been planted in his head so long ago was now justified wholly and completely.

_If they cannot be stopped, the Wall will fall._

It was Duck who broke the silence that followed. “Was it the dagger then? Or did your Sam hit some vital organ, mayhaps?”

Grenn’s thick eyebrows furrowed. “He kept saying that it was the dagger, and not him. The dragonglass, he said… Actually, a–at Craster’s, Sam told the Old Bear, and he thought we should equip every man with dragonglass, just in case.”

Dragonglass. Obsidian. In High Valyrian, the word for it could be translated as “frozen fire”. The Others were beings of cold, so it followed that a wound caused by it would be mortal.

“The dead… how many were there, exactly?” Aegon asked. “You said thousands, but was that it? Was that their army?”

The big man seemed to shrink into himself. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “It might have been. It was all but a blizzard; we could scarcely see in front of us. I didn’t see no leader, though.” He sighed.  “And if every brother who ever died beyond the Wall is in their army…”

Would the cold have preserved those corpses? Hundreds, thousands of years of rangings worth of black brothers. That alone would be a force that would set the heart of any man right to fear. _But it’s not only the Night’s Watch. It’s the animals and giants and–Seven preserve us, the army of wildlings!_

The expressions on his companions’ faces led him to believe that they had come to the same conclusion as he had.

Aegon felt short of breath then. 

* * *

Supper found Aegon retreating into familiar comforts. He had taken to eating his final meal of the day with the black brothers rather than his own party most days, often rotating from one group to another, and prodding them into parting with their personal histories or opinions on the goings-on. He shared his own stories just as often, and usually without prompting. In fact, telling his own stories of the wonders and oddities of Essos tended to get him more favorable responses.

Now, with his fears… his _everything_ confirmed, Aegon found himself shaken. The nightmares, the dreams… _Prophecies? Visions? What is it really?_  It had been an adventure, at first, a true purpose besides biding his time until Varys called for him. He had not thought it a game, or a jest, but, until now, it had not been quite so real. Journeying from Braavos to Eastwatch, then Eastwatch to Castle Black, and now… _Now the Army of the Dead is out there,_ and it is terrible.

So, he sat with Duck, Haldon, Jon, and Lemore in the common hall, as black brothers wandered in, looks of resignation and terror on each of their hardened faces. Haldon had been in the library with Clydas and Aemon, hard at work transcribing crumbling tomes before the knowledge was lost. Jon had happened to be in conference with the Lord Steward, and so had been there to hear the news from the most senior of the surviving rangers. Lemore had been with Septon Cellador in the sept, for though her attempts at curbing his consumption of wine had been for naught, he was lucid enough to act as a protector for a time as Lemore went about his duties in his stead.

As Aemon was informed almost immediately, Haldon had heard it all already, but Lemore had been busy, and Septon Cellador was not someone most bothered to apprise in a prompt manner.

“What happened?” She asked, confused. The mood of the hall was noticeably different enough, if Aegon’s disquiet was not a clear tell by itself.

“The ranging has returned, at long last,” Jon answered tonelessly.

Septa Lemore looked to the sworn brothers that were seated throughout the hall. A few of the returning rangers were there already, but many were not. “I–and the Lord Commander?” she asked, a queer breathlessness about her.

“Dead. Slain by his own brothers,” Haldon said, the grimness of the situation etched into his face like an expensively engraved breastplate. “There will have to be a Choosing, Aemon says.”

“A mutiny?” She looked from one of the hall to the other. “And so few… If they had returned in force, I would have noticed.”

Duck crossed his arms. “Aye, a mutiny, and before that, most were slaughtered at the Fist.”

She studied Duck. “And it was not the wildlings,” she said.

“No,” said Jon, “it was the Others.”

Aegon still felt a chord of fantasy in the word. Others were not a reality, a part of him told himself, they were a story from the Age of Heroes, when men chopped a mountain half with their bare hands, and dragons lurked in every corner.

 _But they’re not a fiction,_ he thought.

They had slowly become more real to him, since that night in that tavern. The linking of them to his world of dreams and nightmares had made it easier for him to distance himself from the truth, but now the time had come when the truth was at hand.

_They’re out there, and they’re waiting._

“We spoke to one of their number,” Duck said. “He saw one of his brothers kill an Other. Witnessed it with his own eyes.”

Aegon nodded.

“So, they are not immortal,” Haldon said. “They can be killed.”

“With dragonglass,” Aegon said. “Grenn said Sam killed it with a dragonglass dagger.”

“Dragonglass?” Haldon scratched at his chin. Typically clean shaven, Haldon seemed to have been letting that habit get away from him in favor of his studies.

“Do you know where it might be found in abundance, Haldon?” Aegon asked, hopeful. Any advantage they could pursue would be worth it.

“No, but Maester Aemon, or his records at least, may.” He laughed mockingly, “I am only half a maester, my knowledge has limits.”

Duck growled suddenly. “It’s that army of the dead that has _me_ shivering,” he said. “The boy said there were _thousands_ of ‘em. And that’s only the wights, can any of us say how many Others are prowling out there? What other manners of magic they can summon up? It’s enough to make a good man craven.”

“And what of the cravens?” Jon asked. “Fear pushes a craven to drastic action.”

They sat quietly for a time, Aegon nibbled on a heel of hard bread. The stew claimed to be venison, and for a change, there was more than a stray shard of it in the in his bowl.

“One thing is now certain, my dream is true.” He took a swig of wine. As much as this news was distressing, he would not overdrink; he was not the Usurper.

“What is less certain, son, is what manner of dream it was.” Said Jon.

Aegon quirked an eyebrow. “Speak plainly, father.”

Jon held up one hand. “Was your premonition a warning of what might come to pass?” Then he held up the other. “Or was it a vision of the future? You can act on a warning, but a vision of the future is immutable.”

“The Wall, you mean,” Aegon said.

“Yes, the Wall.” Jon dropped his hands to the old, hard table. “The Wall _must_ stand; if it can be prevented, we should do all we can to make sure it does not come to pass. In your vision, you saw the Wall crumble apart. We are here on the supposition that it was a warning.” His voice lowered. “But if it’s a vision of the future, then it is fruitless to expend our energy and manpower here. A united Westeros under its rightful king would be a greater boon in that case, and the Golden Company would not balk at a southern invasion.”

They had discussed this, and Aegon had pondered it in great detail. The fact of the matter was that the South was too united, and those parts that weren’t were unlikely to be swayed to his cause. The boy king Joffrey sat the Iron Throne with the might and wealth of Highgarden and Casterly Rock behind him, and his greatest rival was caught with the Ironmen at his back. Stannis Baratheon’s flame was all but extinguished after his defeat at the Blackwater, if Varys was to be believed. The Vale had abstained entirely from the conflict, and the Lannisters had made great strides in courting Dorne. The Iron Islands would be dealt with soon or late.

Even if he could turn Dorne away from the allure of Lannnister gold, the forces of Dorne were not enough to win a war, even with the Golden Company. The Golden Company were legendary, but they were not invincible; the Blackfyre Rebellions attested to that. And if familial bonds did not bring the Vale to the North’s aid, then his claim would mean little to them. Dorne and the Golden Company against the Reach and Westerlands while the North fought off the Iron Islands was not a war he wanted to fight. It was not a war he could _win_.

But was this war at the Wall just as unwinnable? A wildling horde like Westeros had never seen, and the Others bearing down on them after thousands of years of slumber. Before, there had been hope that the ranging would return in force enough that an expedition could be planned, now…

_Was this all for naught?_

No. It couldn’t be.

The throne, the kingdom, it all mattered. Uniting the realm under a lawful and fair king was a just cause that he yearned to fight for. But none of it would matter if the threat of the Others was not stopped; he knew it. He knew it deep in his bones and in his soul. He knew it when he slept and he woke. It lurked in the back of his brain, and came to him whenever he could not chase the thoughts away by means of keeping himself occupied. Every time he struck a trainee down and waited for the next to take his place, or lingered too long leafing through an uninteresting tome, it came to him.

He had felt it, all those months ago. A cold so bone-chilling, so fierce that it felt as if it would tear the very world asunder

“I will not stay here to die,” he said. “But for now, we stay nonetheless. If the time comes… and the wildlings cannot be dealt with, somehow, then we will go, to Strickland, as I said before. There would be no point in making for the Shadow Tower in the event that Castle Black falls. The Watch would be shattered, none would take us beyond the Wall.” He looked to Lemore. “The Gods are good; they would not have called me here for naught. There is something I–no– _we_ can do here. There must be.”

Aegon looked from one of his companions to the next. He saw a different look on each of them. Grim acceptance on Jon, uncertainty on Haldon, cautious optimism on Lemore, and self-righteousness on Duck.

“I swore to protect you,” Duck said, “Jo–Griff made me, when he knighted me.” He laughed. “I swore to make damn well sure that if the Stranger came for you, I’d offer my life for yours.” He looked to the exit of the common hall. “I’d rather not have to do it here though, because if I do, I reckon my body would get right back up again. I wouldn’t be so nice the second time.”

Haldon nodded solemnly. “I will comb the library for anything of use. Mentions of giants, dragonglass, Others, wights…”

“Thank you, Halfmaester.”

Jon made to speak then, but a holler drew all of their attentions away.

“Wenda?!”

A throng of black brothers had entered the common hall together. Aegon saw Calum and one-armed, bristle-bearded Donal Noye among them, as well as a few faces he did not recognize.

“Wenda!”

The one shouting looked about as old as Clydas, if not older. What hair he had remaining to him was grey as granite and his back was curved with age. His skin was loose and wrinkled, as if it had belonged to man twice his size. Something close to joy shone in his old brown eyes.

“Wenda, it is you, isn’t it!”

“Ulmer?” Septa Lemore rose, and in that moment, the years faded away. A broad ecstatic smile shone brilliantly, and she looked twenty years younger. “Ulmer! The ranging–I thought you’d died!”

The old ranger (for all those that had survived the Fist were) sprang forward with a swiftness that belied his age. Lemore rushed to meet him, and the two of them embraced, laughing as if they had narrowly escaped death.

Of course, in Ulmer’s case, he had.

“He can’t have been a lover– no, impossible,” Duck said calculatingly.

Ulmer yelled for his Night’s Watch brethren to go on without him, and returned with Lemore at his side, a sprightly spring in his step. Lemore was flushed, the impropriety of her elation suddenly becoming apparent to her. Aegon didn’t care a whit for the impropriety though, he only had one concern in that instant.

“So… How did you become acquainted with this man, Lemore?”

Jon was shaking his head, but Haldon and Duck seemed as eager as he was.

“Wenda!” The old man feigned affront as he sat in the closest available space. “You never told! That’s not right that is.” The man laughed, a high, cackling thing.

“I always knew there was more to you, septa,” Haldon said.

“I was her lover–her paramour!” The man all but shouted with glee.

She swatted at him, harder than she ever had at Aegon, but her smile showed the truth of her feelings. “No, not lovers; nothing of that sort.” She looked to Jon, who nodded with resignation. She took a deep breath. “Almost twenty years ago now, I was an outlaw.”

Aegon gaped. He’d known she had her own story, but, an _outlaw_?

“Of the Kingswood Brotherhood,” she continued. “Lemore is not the name my parents gave me. I was Wenda, then.”

“The White Fawn?” Duck was incredulous. Jon’s smirk told Duck and Aegon what they needed to know. “Who hasn’t a heard a song of Wenda the White Fawn? Th–This is–”

Lemore reached a hand out to his shoulder, and then, in a more sedate tone, said, “I was a different woman then. Younger, and more foolish.”

“Foolish is right!” Ulmer said, laughing.

Glaring half-heartedly, Lemore said, “Yes, foolish. When the Kingsguard came for the Brotherhood, I managed to avoid punishment. One of our hostages had taken kindly to me, and she helped me to escape.” Her tone fell. “Most of our number were killed.”

Ulmer’s humor finally ceased. “Only I chose the black over death with a sword in hand; but I was an archer, then and now.”

Lemore smiled sadly. “If I had been caught, and if they were merciful, I would have been sent to the Silent Sisters. I didn’t want that. I fled Westeros.”

Finally, Jon interceded. “And that is where her story ends, for now.” He stared pointedly at Aegon and Duck. “There are too many ears here.” He looked to Ulmer. “Ensure your brothers keep quiet on this matter. I would not have gossip spread about our party.”

Before the old ranger had left to rejoin his brothers in black, Jon had extracted from him a solemn oath, just as he had Duck the day he was knighted. Ulmer had embraced Lemore one last time, promised to meet her in the sept soon ((“It does me good to see you embraced the Seven again,” he said)), and then left, laden with memories and emotion.

Aegon would pry the rest of that story from her soon. It seemed as if half their party cloaked themselves in a false identity. He absently wondered if there was more to Haldon than he had initially thought.

Duck chattered about this or that, Lemore complained of Septon Cellador’s poor habits, Jon eyed the crowds of black brothers warily. Soon though, the shared joy of the reunion and the wonder at the revelation faded, and Aegon was consumed with his thoughts once again. Everything that Grenn had said, every fear and worry seemed to assault him at once.

Aegon finished his stew.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many saw Lemore coming? Few, I hope! I didn't just pull it out of my butt though, tune in next time to Dragonlord Z
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed! If there's any spelling/grammar/lore errors, let me know and I'll fix em right up.
> 
> Next chapter: Jon finally shows up at long last


	13. Pomegranate's Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon has a few conversations; the Watch goes to battle.

_Chapter XIII: Pomegranate’s Wrath_

“What do you lot have over the Golden Company that lets you make such promises?” rumbled Donal Noye, without preamble.

Aegon was shocked still. For the last hour, he had been acting as the one-armed blacksmith’s assistant, and the typically taciturn Noye had done little else but bark orders at him. Fumbling, Aegon replied, “You know about that?”

“Aye,” Noye said with a grunt. “Aye, I do.”

Frowning, Aegon wiped at his brow, the sweat smudging with the dust. Despite the chill of the Wall, it was hot in the smithy, especially when one was as close to the forge as he was. Donal Noye was a fairly unassuming man, and as the blacksmith, did not seem to command any official authority in the Night’s Watch hierarchy, but the man was more than well respected among his fellow Sworn Brothers; Aegon supposed it was a small wonder that the man was privy to information most were not.

“Is your father richer than he looks?” Noye went on.

“We are well-off…” Aegon said, unsure of how much he could realistically divulge, and how much the man might already know through the Lord Steward. “But moreso, we are well connected. My father served ably in the Golden Company and made many friends; they owe him a great debt.” It was a passable enough lie, to Aegon’s ear. Even he knew not _exactly_ how Illyrio had guaranteed their cooperation in the goal of seating him upon his throne.

“It will be too late,” Noye said after a long silence. “The wildlings are already nipping at our heels; when they’re done with us, there will be no Watch left to save.” He indicated for Aegon to grip the tongs tightly and then struck the metal hard. “Your father has been arguing with Marsh for the last day.”

Ravens had come in from the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch both. Wildlings were being sighted in greater and greater numbers at various points along the Wall. Icemark, Long Barrow, Greyguard… They seemed determined to prove true every possible strategy the Sworn Brothers had pushed forward.

The most worrying was the Weeper, over near the Shadow Tower, they said. He was a particularly savage raider, and the men of the Shadow Tower reported a particularly distressing number of wildlings beneath his banner. There were whispers that the Lord Steward was intending to take the remaining garrison of Castle Black and fly to the Shadow Tower’s aid. To Aegon though, these were not whispers, as Jon had told him as much in detail.

Jon disagreed with the castellan of Castle Black. Disagreed strongly and loudly. Marsh had taken to Jon easily, and had welcomed him into his confidence in light of his great martial experience, but they had clashed over the proper course of action with regards to the wildling threat.

The Gorge, Marsh insisted, was the only path the wildling army could take that did not require them to climb the Wall or cross the Bay of Seals. If they did not halt the Wildling advance there at the Bridge of Skulls, the Watch would soon find an army at their rear and no means of repelling it.

Jon had spent a fair time consulting with Maester Aemon and the relatively few rangers that still remained at Castle Black. His conclusion was that these moves along the Wall were a feint. If their force was as vast as Jarman Buckwell believed, and the threat of Others as great as the disaster at the Fist attested to, then the Gorge was simply too narrow and treacherous a means of transporting an army that was under threat. If they were fleeing the Others, then it was likely they had women, children, and elderly with them as well. Climbing the Wall or crossing at the Bay of Seals would be nearly impossible in those circumstances. They would seek the easiest means of crossing the Wall.

Which, naturally, was the largest gate. At Castle Black.

Sending away the garrison to combat the feints was suicide, Jon said. Dig in at Castle Black, and deal with any climbers as they come. The great bulk of the wildling army would surely come to Castle Black, and every defender would be needed when the time came.

 _Of course, Jon would rather not be here at all,_ Aegon thought with something close to a sneer.

“Hold it tight, boy,” Noye growled.

Aegon’s concentration had slipped, but back in the present, he gripped harder on the tongs, as the blacksmith requested.

“We had hoped to arrive with the Golden Company at our backs,” Aegon admitted. “The wildlings would have been of little concern with swords as skilled as they coming to the Wall’s defense.” Noye struck hard several times. “But they would not come. They did not believe the talk of dead men walking.”

Noye made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a grunt. “Few come to the Wall willingly.”

“Did you?” Aegon asked, after several more strikes. “Come willingly, I mean.”

Noye stopped for a moment, and gave Aegon a long, firm look. He tipped his head to his stump of a shoulder, where the sleeve was pinned up to avoid catching. “I did, aye. The Watch has need of smiths, and I’d sooner not have been a burden on my family.”

“On account of your arm?”

A nod.

“How did you lose it?”

“You ask a lot of questions for someone with such poor answers.” Noye grunted for him to turn the red-hot metal over, then hammered. “I smithed at Storm’s End for some years.” A hit. “Early in the siege, there was a brief sortie and I was a fair enough sword.” A grunt and a hit. “Our best had gone with Robert.” Hit. “I took an axe to the shoulder.” Hit. “It was glancing. Hadn’t thought much of it.” A grim laugh. “I probably should have.”

“It’s a good man who joins the Watch freely, I think.” Few enough here were good men _before_ they came to the Wall. “I don’t know that I could.”

“Yet, you’re here now,” Noye said.

Aegon felt himself smile as the blacksmith continued his work.

He’d known that Donal Noye had been a smith at Storm’s End. Men at Castle Black were keen to share stories, so it was all too easy to learn much and more of the men who called the castle theirs. The Sworn Brothers said that Noye had even been the man to craft Robert’s fabled Warhammer. _The hammer that killed my father_ , he thought, his smile fading. He shook his head, chasing the thoughts away. All men’s slates were wiped clean when they came to the Wall, he would not hold it against Noye that he had done his duty.

“The siege,” said Aegon, “how was it?”

“Oh, it was right pleasant,” the blacksmith answered, deadpan.

Realizing his phrasing was not exactly elegant, Aegon amended his question. “I have never lived through a siege, what was it like?”

Noye dropped his hammer, and took the tongs from Aegon. He stored the hammered metal away, and grabbed a fresh hunk of it. He gave the tongs back to Aegon.

“The siege…” He hammered. “… was the worst year of my life.” The blacksmith shivered despite the intense heat of the forge. “Lord Tyrell feasted outside the walls of Storm’s End, near every day while we _starved_.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.” He struck the metal with ferocity. “We ate everything. Cleaned straight through our stores. Then we went through the horses and dogs and cats and then _rats_. We boiled the leather of our boots; have you ever dined on leather, boy?”

Astonished, Aegon could only shake his head.

“It’s a poor meal, leather.” CLANG. “And every day we saw Mace Tyrell and his men happy and full.” CLANG.

“Surely some tried to throw open the gates?”

A bark of laughter was Noye’s reply. “Not on Lord Stannis’ watch. A handful of knights tried to escape, but Stannis caught them. Wanted to send them straight to the Tyrells with the catapult.” He struck the metal. “The old maester convinced him it was better to hold onto the men. In case we had to eat them, you know.”

_Mother’s mercy._

“More might have tried something, if Lord Stannis weren’t starving right alongside us.” He looked up to Aegon, inspecting his face. “He was about your age, I reckon. And Lord Renly was barely more than a babe then.” He returned to his work. “It’s hard to hate your lord when he eats the same dinner of leather and rat as the common man.”

“How did you survive?” Aegon asked, genuinely stunned.

“The smuggler.” A hit. “Daven, or somesuch, I believe his name was. Weaved his way through the Redwyne blockade in the dead of night.” CLANG. “Brought stores of onions and saltfish.” He laughed a deep rumble of a laugh. “An onion never tasted so good as it did then, let me tell you, Griff.” Another hit. “The smuggler lost his fingers for that.”

Aegon almost let go of the tongs at that, but managed to grip tightly again before Noye struck. “What? He lost his fingers for rescuing the garrison? Is Stannis Baratheon _mad_?”

Donal Noye smirked at his confusion. “Some might say that, aye. But I think not.” CLANG. “The smuggler lost his fingers for the act of smuggling, but gained land and a knighthood for the rescue. Men have made worse trades.”

Was such a thing just? Aegon could not readily say. Smuggling was without a doubt a crime, and one day, when he was king, he would order men punished for it. _Men will die for it_.

But capture by the enemy fleet would probably have meant death for the smuggler, or at the very least seizure of his goods. It took bravery and skill both to perform such an act, and Aegon knew he would wish to reward the man that would chance it; yet the man was a criminal nonetheless.

CLANG.

“Well,” said Aegon, “you survived that siege Noye, If it comes to it, I should think you’ll survive this one just the same.”

 _The Gods brought me here for a reason,_ he thought, _and I shan’t be running._

* * *

As it had happened, Aegon had been unable to extract the rest of the story from Lemore (or Wenda) in the time he had to himself. She had spent a fair bit of time in the company of the old ranger Ulmer, and he had been kept busy at various tasks, including fletching his own arrows (using fine red feathers that they’d brought from Braavos) and mucking the stables with Pyp.

It was not a regal duty, but it was a duty nonetheless. He was a guest at Castle Black, so he would earn his keep. The stable had been overcrowded ever since Aegon and his party had arrived, as they had needed a number of horses to pull the wains laden full with supplies they had brought. Normally, the stewards would have sent the horses back to Eastwatch, but in light of the events at the Fist, Castle Black had kept the men from Eastwatch as well as their horses.

Dareon had griped considerably on this fact, though he, admittedly, liked Eastwatch only marginally more than he liked Castle Black.

Pypar made a game of naming the horses rude and crude things as they worked, and Aegon had participated to the best of his ability. Anything that made cleaning horse dung and laying fresh straw out more bearable was something he thought was worth doing. The wiry grey garron he had ridden from Eastwatch became Arsefiend, as a result, though it was Pyp’s doing and not his own.

Jon had kept up the argument for another day, but it was only after Donal Noye and Maester Aemon interceded that Bowen Marsh relented. Jarman Buckwell had been undecided, while Ser Endrew Tarth was inclined to take the fight to the wildlings. Other high officers or esteemed rangers (for there were still some left; the ranging had not taken them all), had offered their takes as well, but it seemed as though Aemon carried considerable pull among the Sworn Brothers.

As the appointed castellan of Castle Black, Marsh was functionally the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch until the Choosing could be held. So, he sent word to Denys Mallister at the Shadow Tower that a force of near a hundred men would be sent from Castle Black to supplement Mallister’s more meager number, and that they should avoid direct confrontation.

If need be, allow the Weeper and his men through the Gorge, and loose at them as they pass. Make the crossing a costly one. They could be dealt with later, when horse could be more easily utilized on the close side of the Wall. Ravens flew to the mountain clans of the North, and those whose lands most closely bordered the Gift and New Gift, as warning and call for aid both, but the Watch expected little from the Northmen.

Or at least, that is how Jon had explained it all to him. As much as Aegon might have liked it, he was not allowed into the discussions with Marsh and the senior officers. Jon was ostensibly the leader of their party, and the avenue by which the Golden Company would arrive. Marsh was careful to keep Jon in his confidence, but he probably would have taken it as an insult if Jon demanded his inexperienced son into the meetings, even as “experience he will one day need.”

Aegon yearned for the day when he would be a participant in every meeting, and be allowed to share his own thoughts and input. He was a man grown, and so it rankled him to be cast aside as a child might be, but he understood Jon’s position. Being present for such discussions would only raise more questions, and he was not accomplished enough in his own right to be accepted by any beyond his own small party. Secrecy was still of great import, even if it was now known by at least a handful more that they bore a link to the Golden Company.

The allotted number of Night’s Watch men had left Castle Black with great speed, all ahorse and clad in black mail, boiled black leather, and dyed black wool. Aegon heard much in the way of chatter and grumbling in the wake of their departure.

Perhaps that was why, what seemed like scarce a day later, Bowen Marsh was changing plans. Jon tried valiantly to talk him down from this course of action, but the Lord Steward was going to take all but the greenest, weakest, and most aged men of Castle Black, and they were going to strike hard at the Weeper. He could not be allowed to cross the Bridge of Skulls. They would leave to reinforce the Shadow Tower shortly after dawn.

Jon was infuriated, and had been about ready to take the garrons they had ridden from Eastwatch back and take the soonest ship back to Essos. They would not aid the Lord Steward in his folly, and it would surely be doom to stay at Castle Black with so few men remaining.

It was fortuitous then, that circumstances changed overnight.

* * *

Aegon woke with a vision of ice and a yearning for fire. He had been a dragon again, though if he was red or black or brown he could not say. His heart hammered in his chest and a thin sheen of sweat covered his body. He felt hot, even though he knew this was far from the warmest room he had ever slept in.

Throwing off the rough, but usable enough, blankets and thick furs that the stewards had provided him with, Aegon got to his feet. Glancing around, he saw that Jon’s and Duck’s beds were already empty. The fire was low, somehow, despite the heat of his flesh.

He heard a clamor outside, and going to the nearest window, saw that the castle yard was a flurry of activity.

Aegon quickly clothed himself in the wools and leathers he had taken to wearing and made to leave. Just as he crossed the threshold of the quarters’, he thought better of his current state, and returned to retrieve Brightfyre’s scabbard. He tied the swordbelt firm at his hips, and, feeling more prepared, swiftly exited the King’s Tower.

He had thought it humorous at first, that he would have his chambers in the King’s Tower, but Duck had made a thousand and one japes about it, and slain Aegon’s good cheer.

Near as soon as he was in the courtyard, he was pulled aside by a black brother.

Still more than a tad drowsy, it took him a moment to realize that it was Grenn, the Aurochs. The coarse, thick beard he had still not shaved made him a sight to behold, and the frenzy in his eyes gave him a half-mad look. He grabbed Aegon’s shoulders.

“Jon’s back!”

It was only years of lessons and reprimands that prevented Aegon from blurting out _“Connington?”_ Instead, what he said was, “What Jon?”

“Jon Snow! He’s back!”

That shocked him out of his daze. “The traitor?” he asked, more alert. “Was he not riding with Mance’s army?”

Grenn shook his head wildly. “He’s no traitor! He came back, he was spying on the wildlings!”

Aegon had not expected the Stark bastard’s story to end well. In Essos, there was not quite the same disparagement of bastards, but here, the stain on one’s honor was considered immense; men were driven to harsh actions when their every move was questioned. Aegon had thought Snow must have sought to escape the taint that was made felt by those from the Seven Kingdoms.

“But there’s more, he brings news.”

“News? Of what?”

“Your father, he was right,” Grenn said. “It’s all a feint. The wildlings do not mean to cross the Bridge of Skulls at all; they’re coming here.” He pointed out south. “From _this_ side of the Wall.”

Aegon pieced the story together quickly.

Jon Snow had returned only an hour or two hence. He had raced into the courtyard on a horse that was all but blown, and began ranting to the first brother that had grabbed at him. He was wearing a sheepskin cloak, they said, and it was only for the fact that he was recognized by an already awake Pyp that he wasn’t turned to a man-shaped hedgehog by archers; the men had been preparing to make for the Shadow Tower, and so many were ready with bows already at the crack of dawn.

Snow had taken some sort of wound in the leg, and was delirious from the pain of it. He had immediately begun to talk of the wildlings coming for Castle Black. Marsh had been up early as well, and so quickly got the story from the supposed turncloak. Many were suspicious, but Aemon, who had been aroused from sleep to tend to Snow’s wound, attested to his loyalty.

Many of the Sworn Brothers had been armed and armored already in their preparations to leave for the Shadow Tower, and so now, many were anxious to ride out and clash with the wildlings making for Castle Black.

But when Aegon had finally managed to track down Jon ( _Connington_ , he added mentally, for now there were two Jons which he might think of), his suspicions as to why they had not already ridden out were confirmed.

Jon was in the lower vaults of Castle Black. In these vaults they stored not just the Watch’s foodstores and prisoners, but their great dusty library as well. Duck was at Jon’s side, as was Haldon. They sat in on a loose circle of stools; several more empty stools were arranged beside them. All three were lightly armored, with their swords at their hips, and their wools somewhat less heavy than usual.

“Stark’s bastard says these wildlings are all afoot,” Jon said. “Marsh means to meet them with a storm of horse and steel.” Aegon could hear the vindication in Jon’s tone. _Hells,_ he thought, _I can almost taste it._

“And the land past Mole’s Town is wide and flat,” Aegon said.

Duck and Haldon nodded. “Aye, it is,” Haldon said.

“So he waits for the wildlings to follow the kingsroad past Mole’s Town before taking the fight to them.”

Aegon had been to Mole’s Town some number of times. Duck had made many more trips there than he had, and Aegon sadly knew why. _“Digging for treasure,”_ the men here at Castle Black called it, and Duck had taken kindly to the turn of phrase as well. He was a rather avid treasure hunter, as it happened. Mole’s Town was a strange outpost, with most of its structures underground, but it was pleasant in its own way. He hoped that the wildlings would not burn it. Jon Snow had warned the people of Mole’s Town, they said, and so they were expecting refugees to begin appearing at Castle Black’s gates at any time.

“We will go with the Watch,” Aegon said.

The smug victory dancing in Jon’s blue eyes vanished in an instant, replaced with a frantic fear, “No, out of–”

“ _Father_ ,” Aegon interrupted, nearly shouting the word. “I can’t live in the shadows of better men forever.” He said, more softly. “I have never seen true combat. Is it not better to face it when victory is certain and our adversary weak?”

Jon looked torn. He glanced to Haldon for support, but it was Duck who answered his call.

“They say there’s Thenns among them wildlings.”

He had heard mention of Thenns. It was rarely a kind mention.

“They are the best equipped and most disciplined of the wildlings,” Haldon said. “They even have a lord, called a magnar, if Jon Snow tells it true.” He fingered his sword hilt. “The Thenns use bronze rather than bone; and the raiders among the group are experienced, with many carrying stolen steel. The battle will not be so easy as the rangers expect, Aemon believes.”

“Even still,” said Aegon, “I will have to fight one day. Against the Others and their dead men, or southern knights when I claim my throne.” He laughed a thin and brittle laugh, “Of those, I should think the wildlings the weakest, and I shall be ahorse while they are afoot.” He caught Duck’s gaze. “And I have my loyal sworn shield Ser Rolly beside me!”

Duck smirked. Aegon rarely used his full name and title except to goad him.

Jon let out a long-suffering exasperated breath. “I best see you covered head to foot in steel,” he said. “I will not have it said that the last dragon was felled by wildling savages due to _my_ negligence.”

“I shall go as well,” Haldon said, patting at his sheathed blade. “My blood has not been raised high in some years.”

“Good, good,” Jon said. He looked to and from each of them, scratching at his blue beard. His red roots were beginning to become apparent in his facial hair. He would either have to shave or re-apply the dye. Tyroshi dye was not so easily found this far north, so he would probably opt to shave. “You will stay at our sides. Do not split off under any circumstances. Side by side we are a wall of muscle and metal that is not easily pierced; alone, you are a green boy in expensive armor.”

* * *

Jon informed Marsh of their intentions to ride alongside the Night’s Watch during their attack on the wildling band. He accepted the aid, but only after some persuasion (for he feared the Jon’s untimely death might deprive the Watch of the Golden Company’s eventual assistance). The Lord Steward sent scouts out to Weatherback Ridge to watch for the wildling advance, and over the course of the day, the men, women, and children of Mole’s Town made their way to the courtyard of Castle Black.

Duck knew many of the whores’ names, to Jon’s chagrin. “ _Sky Blue Su, the beautiful Zei, and the ever elegant Lady Meliana,”_ he’d said, pointing to each of them in turn.

Several of the Mole’s Town residents had brought their horses with them, which the Watch had promptly commandeered for the offensive. For safety, the very old and very young were sent up to the top of the Wall by way of winch, while those of fine health and age were allowed to take the long switchback stair to the top, or take refuge in the vaults.

Aegon went to their chambers in the King’s Tower to take up his armor, for Jon had kept it there. During his spars, he had used the Night’s Watch’s spare armor. It was best to be prepared; the wildlings could be upon them sooner than they thought.

* * *

Lemore helped him with his armor, while Duck helped Jon with his.

“Are you content to sit it out, Lemore?” Aegon asked.

Lemore smiled softly. “I am not quite so eager for battle as I once was.” She tied the knots at the back of his breastplate. “Twenty years ago, I would have relished this chance.”

Haldon sat to the side, already fully armored. He looked considerably more impressive than he usually did; it felt weird to think of him as a halfmaester while he looked as he did, for he looked every inch the warrior. “I should think the Night’s Watch would take offense if we brought a woman to battle.” He splayed his hands out. “They might consider it mocking.”

Nodding, Lemore affixed his left spaulder. “The Kingswood Brotherhood was a very singular institution,” she said, “we were all brothers and sisters, then.”

As she tied his right spaulder tight, Aegon asked what he had been thinking since the old ranger Ulmer had spilled her secret. “How did you escape? How did you end up… involved, in all of _this_?” Aegon gestured vaguely at himself.

“Toyne,” she replied. “Simon Toyne. He had family across the Narrow Sea.”

“Blackheart,” supplied Jon. “He led the Golden Company in those days, before Strickland turned them craven.” He growled the last words. “Blackheart was a good man, and took on many an exile. I met Lemore there… after the Battle of the Bells.”

Lemore moved on to his lower armor. “Illyrio brought me on first, for while you are a babe, one woman is about the same as any other.  But quickly enough, you were toddling about, and the touch of a single woman becomes more significant.”

He remembered those early years cloudily. He had thought Lemore his mother then, he knew. His father had been away fighting, they told him, but the truth was that Jon was not yet aware of Illyrio and Varys’ plot. He was fighting, that much was true, but he had known nothing of his supposed son.

“And they had need of one with special knowledge of the Seven, besides,” she said.

“Were they septons in the Kingswood Brotherhood?” Aegon asked laughingly.

“No, they were a decidedly impious lot.” She laughed in remembrance. “But I had not always been an outlaw, either. Before the Brotherhood, I was a young lady, actually.”

Aegon’s eyes scanned over to Jon. Jon had generally preferred to refer to Lemore as “Lady” over “Septa”. He supposed that now made some sense, though she had never truly carried herself as the women of smallfolk tended to.

“Wenda is not my true name, though it is not false, exactly. Gwendolin, I was, so many years ago. Gwendolin Cafferen.”

Duck snapped his fingers, dropping the vambrace he had been helping Jon with to do so. “Ha-ha! And there is the white fawn!”

Lemore blushed. “Yes, the white fawn of my house.” She paused from her armoring and brandished her seven-pointed star pendant. “My father had many daughters, rather too many, really. And as I was one of the younger girls, he decided to send me away to a motherhouse, where I would become a woman of the Faith. I stayed there some years, but eventually… Well, I left.” She laughed.

Aegon felt his lips curl into a grin. “So, you are no true septa at all! My my, Lemore, how scandalous.” He teased.

She swatted at the back of his still uncovered head. “And you are no true squire.”

“Seems we are a troupe of mummers and exiles,” he replied. He looked over to Haldon. “And you, Halfmaester! What is your story?” Aegon knew that he had left the Citadel over disagreements with their methods, that while had studied rigorously, he had never forged a proper chain; but he knew little else. “Should I die on the battlefield today, I would like to die knowing my closest friends and allies.”

Aegon realized his misstep immediately, as the humor and good cheer in the room seemed to vanish in a heartbeat. Jon gave him a hard look, and Lemore held a hand to his side. “Do not jest in that manner,” she chided. “It is not becoming.”

“Forgive me,” he said.

They _were_ his closest friends. They were his _family_ , truly.

That was why it had stung so fiercely to discover they had hidden his identity from him. Jon was his father and Lemore his mother. Haldon was his… uncle, he supposed. And Duck was without a doubt his brother. That they (other than Duck) had kept him in the dark for so long had shaken his very world. They meant everything to him, and so it had hurt.

Now, his battles were beginning. As much as he believed in his grander purpose, he knew that the Stranger could come at any moment. In an instant, everything could change.

 _I am not my sire,_ he thought, _I will not repeat his mistakes._

He would know his family; know them truly while he still could.

“I’m sorry to say that there is no story to tell.” Haldon offered a dry chuckle. “I come from the Vale, and wished to study at the Citadel. Eventually, I left and made my own way. I have no tales of derring-do or branding highborn wastrels,” he said. “Some men are as they seem and nothing more.”

Aegon smiled to the Halfmaester. “I will badger you for tales of your youth another time then,” Aegon said, “after the battle. I cannot imagine you lived your entire life sedate and collected.”

Fully armored, Jon was a sight to behold.

Jon Connington was a mighty swordsman in his younger days, even all these years since his last engagements with the Golden Company, he looked every bit a fighter. His armor was particularly eye-catching. It bore no sigils of House Connington, for Jon was not fool enough to wear his identity on his sleeve, but it very much showed his connection to the legendary mercenary band. The armor was plain steel, in truth, Aegon knew, but it had been worked by a skilled smith. The armorsmith had worked gold coloring (not true gold, but some substitute) into the metal.

From head to foot, Jon shone gold.

It was so wonderfully brilliant and garish and completely at odds with the man himself that Aegon could do nothing but laugh. The armor fully encased him, but it was not wrought in the traditional Westerosi style; it very much bore the flair of an Essosi smith. Any man that bore witness to it would not mistake him for a Lannister. If one pictured “The Golden Company” in their mind’s eye, surely this was what they saw.

Duck and Haldon’s armor, meanwhile, was plain steel. Neither wore a surcoat or any special adornment. While not yet being worn, Aegon knew Duck preferred a greathelm. Haldon held a frog-faced helmet at his side.

Aegon’s armor too, was simple in comparison to the glory and radiance of Jon’s. He bore no ornamentation, but the one flair he was allowed was its color; it was black. It was not the black of the Night’s Watch but something subtly different, though no less dark than the blackened plate the Watch called their own. One day, he might wear a Targaryen surcoat or tabard over the armor, but for the nonce, he must remain incognito.

It was the first time he had worn this new suit, in fact. He had worn several different sets of armor throughout his youth, though never one full plate, for his growth had come in fits and starts. Jon had commissioned this new armor in Braavos while he attempted to convince the Golden Company to sail to the Wall. ( _“You are about done growing; it is high time you had a proper suit of plate,”_ Jon had said, _“When your identity is known, you will have true Targaryen armor. But until that time, this will serve.”)_

He wore chain, gambeson, and wool beneath the armor. It was a tight fit with so many layers, but in an environment this cold, it was important not only for the protection it offered. They each had cloaks that fastened around their shoulders as well: black and warm, courtesy of the Night’s Watch.

Less than an hour later, they saw the smoke rise in grim grey pillars from Mole’s Town, and the beacon on Weatherback Ridge was lit.

-

Aegon patted Arsefiend as he waited. The garron’s ears flicked all around, and it was slowly digging a trench in the muddy ground beneath them with its hooves. Clearly, the horse was not immune to the sense of anxiety that was permeating the men of the Night’s Watch.

Jon sat tall and brilliant on his short brown mare (he had not cared whether he rode the same horse from their initial journey or not). Pyp had called that one Sword Swallower, but Aegon hoped that its fate in the battle would diverge from its name.

Haldon looked somewhat uneasy in his armor, but his horse was not quite as bothered as he was.

Duck… Well, Aegon couldn’t tell. His helm was on, and the slit in it for his eyes betrayed precious little of his expression.

The men of the Night’s Watch varied considerably in arms and in armor. Some wore crude halfhelms, others a mail coif, and yet others a full helm. Each wore the black of their order, though the more highborn of them wore clearly higher quality cloaks. Some wore full plate, and others only certain pieces. There seemed to be little rhyme or reason to their choices. Some clutched the fine steel swords Aegon had brought from Braavos, but others held well-used axes or long spears. But for all that they seemed a loose collection of individuals in look, most every one shared the solemnity of their duty.

There were near two hundred men assembled. Many of them Aegon knew from his assistance in various duties and his roamings during supper. Calum was there _(“It’s been too long since I’ve had a good fight,”_ he told Aegon), having been kept on since their arrival from Eastwatch. Dareon was all too glad to have not been ordered to fight, and Pyp was considered too green by the Lord Steward, but it had rankled Grenn some to not be taken along. ( _“I survived the Fist,”_ he had griped).

The one they called Dolorous Edd was there, picking at his face and grumbling. ( _“I hope it’s a Thenn that gets me; bronze cuts cleaner than bone.”)_

There was Lemore’s old comrade Ulmer, and Dywen as well. Both had returned from the mutiny at Craster’s Keep together, and were among the more experienced sworn brothers, though they were near the back, as their specialty was more bow than sword. Ser Endrew Tarth was near the head of them with the Lord Steward, both clad in near full black plate and mail. Marsh looked less like a great fruit when in armor, though there was still some resemblance.

Arsefiend whickered. Aegon leaned forward and stroked the horse on the side of its head. “They’ll break easily,” Aegon said to the horse, “you will survive another day, I’m sure.”

Near the door to Maester Aemon’s quarters, Aegon saw Pyp and Grenn and a third man. Grenn stood with his arms crossed, but Pyp looked happy enough to not be involved. The third man stood with a crutch. His hair was near shoulder length, a fair bit shorter than Aegon’s own, and dark, almost black.  _Must be Snow, then,_ Aegon thought.

Jon Snow had done his part. There was much in the way of muttering and accusation when it came to the brother-turned-traitor-turned-brother, but none could say he had not given the garrison time to prepare. If the wildlings had been allowed to infiltrate Castle Black in the night… Aegon shuddered at the thought of it.

Aegon felt strangely calm as he waited for Marsh to order them forward.

He had trained with a sword (and lance too) for most of his life. Hours and hours of sparring, near every day for over ten years. He had absorbed countless lessons from Haldon, and Jon, and even Duck about battle. When to push forward and when to retreat. When a certain weapon might be a better choice. When heavy armor might be a liability. How to rally men in defeat and how to ensure victory did not turn a disciplined force into fools.

How to fight… How to lead… Aegon knew it all.

_But do I really?_

He had never taken a man’s life. He had never taken a wound more serious than what he might accidentally inflict on himself when carving up a rabbit.

 _Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahooooooooooooooooooooo_ , rang out the Lord Steward’s horn, _aaaaaahoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo._

And then the anxious mass of black clad men and their whinnying mounts lurched forward like a drunken giant.

“Put down your visor!” He heard Duck yell as he spurred Arsefiend into movement. Ever dutiful, Aegon slammed it shut. He didn’t like having his sight restricted so much, but he knew all too keenly the value of safety.

The storm of hooves and the clank of shifting armor was all Aegon heard. He had never ridden among so great a number, and the sheer scope of it was almost astounding to him. He felt the rumble of hooves echoing within himself. His heart hammered.

He saw Jon shining and gold, Duck leaning forward in excitement, and Haldon cautious. He saw the Sworn Brothers of the Night’s Watch, each preparing for the oncoming attack in his own manner. He saw Marsh at the head, and he saw Dywen and Ulmer and the other archers with their bows already drawn.

Aegon was near the middle of the formation, Jon had made sure of that.

The horses were a rolling thunder as they rode, and the sky above them a dim, smoky purple. Stars were beginning to show, but they had more enough light to see.

They crested a low hill, and then Aegon finally saw the wildlings; he was immediately struck by their number.

 _This will be a slaughter_ , he thought grimly. _If they are smart, they will yield._

Jon Snow had said there were less than one hundred and twenty, and it seemed to ring with truth. They nigh doubled the number of wildlings, and any one of their own force was better equipped than the best of these raiders. The majority of them bore some glint of bronze, but not a one had something comparable to a suit of plate. Most wore skins and leather.

The Thenns ( _For they must be, with their bronze_ , he thought) marched in some a formation, but the twenty odd beside them were loose. They seemed to freeze as the Night’s Watch neared.

“Nock!” called the high voice of the Lord Steward.

They were almost close enough that arrows would hit.

“Draw!”

Aegon saw a few arrows come sailing from the wildlings’ ranks, but they were too far, and not a one even made it to Marsh at the front. Aegon offered a quick prayer to the Warrior, for courage, and the Smith, for strength.

“Loose!”

Dywen and Ulmer and the rest of the archers loosed, and Aegon almost felt the thrum of the bowstrings. Perhaps twenty of their two hundred had come with bows, and of those twenty arrows flying from their ranks, not a one seemed to strike a wildling. Some met shields, others hit the ground. But not a single wildling fell.

… they did not fall. But they broke.

“They’re scattering!” He heard someone shout over the pounding of hooves.

The wildlings were shouting and screaming and running every way but north, but they were not throwing down their weapons.

Drawing Brightfyre from its scabbard, Aegon steeled himself for the storm that was about to break. He heard a great shout rise up from the front ranks of the Night’s Watch, and he picked it up despite himself. “For the Watch!” someone cried. “For Mole’s Town!” yelled another.

The hurricane of horseflesh and metal and black cloaks fluttering rolled over the wildlings like a tide.

Their own formation began to splinter within moments, chasing after the wildlings wherever they went. He heard the crunch of bone and the scream of a horse wounded. He saw a half-helmed man fall from his horse, an arrow catching him in the eye. He saw the shining gold form of Jon Connington, and the glinting grey steel of Ser Rolly as they cleaved through already fractured wildlings. He couldn’t find Haldon.

And then he was flying, floating. Falling.

His horse had been hit, he thought. It slammed to the ground with an ear-splitting cry of pain, and only his quick reaction had prevented his leg from being crushed beneath the garron’s considerable weight. Brightfyre had flown from his hands.

He saw it ahead, glinting in the mud even then as he heard horses all around him.

Something struck him in the back, but it couldn’t pierce the thick, well made plate, let alone what was beneath it. He kicked out at whatever it was and quickly crawled forward, grabbing at his sword, but a weight fell on him and moving was difficult.

He heard grunting, and dimly realized that it was a person.

Aegon rolled and kicked and saw the sheepskin-clad figure fall away, fumbling and spitting.

He drew himself to his knees and then his feet and took a hurried step toward Brightfyre, but the wildling threw himself at him and he was falling again. He managed to right himself before he was trapped and struck out at the hooded wildling with a plated fist. He saw sharp grey eyes well up with tears and struck again, but the man was still holding on. He was gripping a carved bone dagger and stabbing at his armpit, but he was too small, too weak, compared to Aegon. Aegon knocked the dagger from their hand, and the wildling cursed in a low, hissing voice. He kicked out, sending the wildling away again, and he scrambled the last few feet to his sword.

He rose, and held the three and half feet of steel that was Brightfyre before him. “Yield!” He shouted.

But the wildling did not yield, he stood, with a reclaimed spear jabbing out at him. “Others take you, crow!” The wildling spat, half rabid.

Aegon closed the distance between them, and the spear came flying at the slit of his visor, but he ducked below it and to the side and dashed forward and Brightfyre–a steel extension of his arm that he’d never known he had–  was leaping forward into the sheepskin, and then it came out the other end, red with life’s blood.

He heard a gasp and a grunt and then the wildling fell to the mud.

And then it was as if a haze had lifted. All around he heard cheers and shouts and hollers.

It had been less than a minute, perhaps, and already, it was over. He saw Thenns in their scaled bronze armor held at sword point. He saw a wildling holding a wicked wound on his shoulder as a Sworn Brother laughed. He saw a tall Thenn with no ears drop a bronze axe inlaid with runes he did not recognize.

He looked down at the wildling. They were breathing still, shallowly, but Aegon had taken him in the gut; he would not live.

Faintly, he remembered what Jon had always told him. _“Every man deserves a quick, clean death. Look him in the eye. Do not draw it out.”_

Aegon knelt down and brandished Brightfyre. _The neck would be fastest, I think_.

He threw back the wildling’s hood, and his sword nearly fell from his hand.

“Do it, crow,” the woman growled. “Finish it.” Her eyes were blue grey, and her hair a tangled mane of red. But not so red as the blood that leaked from her lips as she coughed. She clutched tightly at her stomach, and her breaths were wet gasps.

She might have been Jon’s daughter.

It–he couldn’t.

No. He’d get Haldon, Haldon could fix it, he could save her.

Brightfyre trembled in his grip.

“Let me see your face, crow _,”_ she hissed through clenched teeth. “Let me see the man that kills me.”

He lifted a shaking hand to his visor, and raised it up, baring his face to the cool air of the encroaching night.

She coughed suddenly. “J-Jon?” A violent spasm coursed through her, and he belatedly realized she was laughing. “No,” she said, “not Jon. You’re too dark.”

“Aegon,” he said. “My name is Aegon, and I’m no crow.”

“Be quick about it, Aegon. Strike true.” Then, when he hesitated, “Do it, _please_.”

He remembered everything he had ever learned about knighthood. About protecting women and children and the innocent. He thought of his mother, raped and savaged before she was allowed to die. He thought of Rhaenys, cowering under her bed, and stabbed a hundred times. He thought of the mercy they deserved, that they should have been granted. He remembered that a king ought to be able to do what he would have another do in his name.

Brightfyre fell in a sharp arc, even as he shook.

It was clean, and it was quick.

* * *

Later, Aegon discovered that Haldon had been wounded. It was not mortal, but it was severe enough that they would be unable to travel for some time. A wildling’s spear had gotten him through a crack in the armpit, but had not managed to pierce deeply enough into his flesh to kill him.

 _“It’s high time you had a decent scar,”_ Duck had jeered, but they all knew it for the empty jest that it was. It had been a narrow thing. An inch or two more, and Haldon would have breathed his last.

The black brothers had lost only three men and two horses, Arsefiend, miraculously not among them. It seemed his horse had simply slipped in the mud.

The wildlings were brought back to Castle Black as captives, and the Old Pomegranate glowed in the light of victory.

For a time, the eyes he saw in his dreams were not blue like stars, but blue and grey like an overcast sky. A shroud of fire fell all about her face. Then her skin would darken, and her eyes become brow, the shape of her chin akin to his own. Then, a child’s face, with eyes and skin that mirrored his, and dark brown curls. Wide dark eyes, staring up at him.

 _“Do it,”_ she would whisper, as blood trickled from her lips, and she would be the wildling again. “ _Do it, please.”_

And every time, he did.         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon DID show up, but apologies for the lack of conversation between Aegon and Jon this chapter. The wildlings were just a more pressing concern.
> 
> To those of you that expressed a hope that Ygritte would survive, this was not done to spite you. I'd had this scene planned since WAY early on.
> 
> Next chapter is a Jon POV, AND their first meeting. So look forward to that!


	14. The Crow Comes Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the battle, Jon broods

_Chapter XIV: The Crow Comes Home_

Jon watched his brothers return to Castle Black with a confusion of emotions and feelings.

He saw Bowen Marsh at the fore of the returning host, his visor lifted and his back proud and straight. This was a victory the Watch needed, and Jon was glad to have prevented Styr and the rest from the slaughter they had planned. His brothers were laughing and cheering as they entered the castle grounds, and he saw Owen the Oaf clapping his hands wildly.

 _But, Ygritte_ …

The conclusion of the battle was confirmed the second he had returned to Castle Black and seen that Bowen Marsh had not bitten on Mance’s bait. Styr and Jarl’s men intended to use guile, but if they had only had the dregs of the Watch manning Castle Black, even a full assault might have succeeded.

He saw Dolorous Edd Tolett, still hale and hearty despite his prior insistences that he would not survive the confrontation. He saw Dywen and Jarman Buckwell and Ser Endrew Tarth and some men from Eastwatch and dozens of others. He saw the group from Essos, them that Pyp and Grenn had told him about. One of their number had been injured, and the armor on his chest had been removed. The youngest, the tall boy with blue hair was frantic in his fretting over the wounded man, whose loss of blood seemed great but his expression calm. Near the end of the column he saw the brothers that did not make it back. He could not see their faces, but their stillness told him all he need know.

And at the very end, he saw the captives. He saw Styr and many of his Thenns, their pride somehow unshattered. He saw Big Boil and Grigg the Goat. He saw Del and Henk the Helm and others. A majority of them had yielded and lived, it seemed.

But of Ygritte, Jon saw no sign. His heart fell in his chest.

He adjusted on his crutch, still trying to become used to the feel of it.

“Seems it was as simple as the Old Pomegranate thought it’d be,” said Grenn.

Jon nodded. “They are undisciplined, and they were too few to stand against such a force,” he replied. “I tried to tell them that forcing such an attack would bear only bitter fruit.” _Her_ , he amended in his head, _I tried to tell her that. She wouldn’t listen._

Grenn grumbled. “I would’ve gone.” He had said as much too many times since he been ordered to stay in Castle Black. “I’m a ranger.”

“Battle is not so glorious,” he said, thinking of Orell and his eagle. He touched the scars around his eyes absently. Had he not reacted as quickly as he had, he might not have kept his eyes.

Soon, the wildling captives and the victorious Night’s Watch had returned in full, and still, he saw no sign of Ygritte. Marsh was quick to order manacles brought out from the vaults beneath Castle Black, as well as the building of a stockade to house the band of wildlings. The men set about returning their mounts to the stables and taking their arms and armor back to the armory. It was a mess of men and movement, and all throughout it, he could think only of Ygritte.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._

* * *

 

Later, Jon was called to the top of the King’s Tower by the Lord Steward. Climbing it was something of a struggle on his crutch, but he made the best of it. He heard discussion going on behind the door to Marsh’s solar, but it was muffled, and he could make out little of it. He knocked, and the discussion halted.

The door opened inward, and Jon was face to face with a man he did not recognize. Tall, strongly built, and with dyed blue hair and beard, the man could only be the leader of the group from Essos. Small bits of red were showing at the roots of his beard. He frowned, and gave Jon a queer look, but stepped back and allowed him entrance.

Jon shut the door behind him and hobbled into the warm solar.

Bowen Marsh sat behind the wide desk the Old Bear had brought into the King’s Tower after his old apartments burned. It… stung, to think of the Old Bear now. _I should have been there_ , he thought, _I failed you._

The man from Essos took a seat near the Lord Steward. Maester Aemon sat in a plush chair nearest the hearth, his old blind eyes unseeing but his smile kind. Jarman Buckwell was there, square and frowning. Othell Yarwyck, the First Builder, as well.

Bowen Marsh gestured to an empty chair. “Sit, Snow.”

He sat.

“You know why you are here, am I correct?” Marsh said, his tone grim,

“I do.”

Jon was no fool. He knew all too well what it looked like. He knew he had looked every inch the wildling when he appeared at Castle Black in the dead of night. He knew he had slain Qhorin Halfhand. He remembered every little thing he had done with Ygritte in their sleeping skins. His vows had been stretched thin at the best, broken at worst. But he had done his duty. He still had his pride.

He flicked his head at the Essosi man. “Why is here? He has not said our words.”

The man’s frown deepened.

Marsh coughed. “Griff is a friend to the Watch.” Griff gave a solemn nod. “Were it not for his sage wisdom, you would have found the castle empty when you arrived in your sheepskin cloak.”

Jon felt the eyes of each of them bore into him.

“We saw you, amongst Mance’s army,” said Ser Jarman Buckwell, “you and your wolf. We scouted his line and saw you marching right along with those wildlings.” He did not ask a question, but it was clear to Jon that there was one there.

“I told it to you already,” he said to Marsh. “You and Maester Aemon, you both heard it.”

The Lord Steward crossed his arms. “In brief. With the wildlings so close, we could not deliberate for long. The fact remains that you deserted the Night’s Watch.”

 _‘If we beheaded every boy who rode to Mole’s Town in the night, only ghosts would guard the Wall,’_ Mormont had once said to him. But he had done worse than dig for buried treasure. He had loved Ygritte. He had killed a brother.

“Tell it in full, Snow.”

So he did.

He told of everything he had done on the ranging, of the empty villages and the great weirwoods. He told of the cache of dragonglass weapons and the shattered horn he had found wrapped in a Sworn Brother’s cloak at the Fist. He told of his inclusion in Qhorin Halfhand’s scouting party. He spoke of when he couldn’t kill Ygritte.

“Why?” asked Griff.

He didn’t know what to say. “I… I couldn’t. She was at my mercy. She was a woman. She was scarcely older than I was. All of it, I don’t know.”

“You killed the other man, Orell, you said his name was,” said Jarman Buckwell. “He wanted to die no more than she did.”

“I know,” said Jon, instinctively rubbing at the scars around his eyes.

“And you knew there were spearwives among the wildlings,” the Lord Steward said.

“I did. But I couldn’t.”

He told them that Qhorin had left him Ygritte on purpose, as a means to measure of his character. He told them of the dream he’d had, when he had lived as Ghost and seen Mance’s host, and then been attacked by Orell’s eagle.

“A warg?” Griff asked, skeptical. “Next will you tell us of grumkins?”

Jon shook his head. “I didn’t believe it myself, I didn’t want to.” He breathed deeply. “But Qhorin and the others thought it true. We’d been caught, they said, and so we turned back.” He drummed his fingers on his lap. “Among Mance’s inner circle is a man called Varamyr Sixskins, He is a mighty skinchanger. He has three wolves, a shadowcat, and Orell’s eagle as well.”

Aemon spoke up. “And the sixth skin?”

“A polar bear, largest bear I’ve ever seen. He rides it as any of us would mount a horse.”

Marsh turned to Jarman Buckwell. “Have you seen this man?”

“Seen him? No. But I saw a shadowcat among their number and thought it queer.” He looked at Jon. “I’ve heard of this Varamyr. I thought him a story, like the rat cook.”

“He is no story. But the man is not so impressive as his reputation. He is a small, frail man.”

Jon spoke of their flight from the Skirling Pass, of the eagle that dogged their every step. He detailed the dwindling of their party, as one after another was sent away or left behind. He spoke of his last night with Qhorin.

“Our horses were blown; he knew we were caught.” Jon felt a sudden pain in his leg and clutched at it, massaging it. “He told me to go over to them, to do whatever they asked of me. ‘Ride with them,’ he said, ‘eat with them, fight with them, for as long as it takes. And watch.’ He told me I must not balk, no matter what. But…”

“But?” said Marsh.

He knew that almost everything else could be forgiven. The desertion had been reconnaissance. Sharing a bed with Ygritte had been guile, and brother’s found women’s bed with alarming frequency, besides. But killing a Brother… If he told them, there was no guarantee he would live to see another day.

He stretched his burned hand.

It was better he say it than it come from another source. _There is honor in that_ , he thought, but it did not console him, not truly.

“But they caught us, and they told me to kill Qhorin if I would join them.”

If the room had been quiet before, it became as silent as death itself. A log in the hearth crackled and spit and the fire hissed. He felt another pang in his leg.

“Qhorin–he called me a bastard, and said we were born craven. And then he attacked me. He would have killed me.”

Jarman Buckwell nodded at that, and, seemingly for the benefit of Griff, said, “Qhorin was among our best. A more skilled fighter has rarely been seen in the Watch.”

“Peerless in a fight,” Ser Endrew Tarth added.

“Yes,” Jon said. “I couldn’t kill him, even if I had truly wanted to… then Ghost got him in the leg.” The last words came hard, his very body seeming to fight him. “And I cut his throat.”

He had told Aemon and Marsh before that Qhorin was dead, that it was by his command he had joined the wildlings, but he had not told of his slaying of the legendary ranger. It was too important that they know of the wildlings south of the Wall, and he would not risk an execution before Styr and his men were dealt with. But now, he had done his part. He had done his duty; he had served with honor.

 _But,_ a small part of him whispered, _honor isn’t all you’ve ever wanted._

Marsh and Aemon and Othyll Yarwyck and Jarman Buckwell and Endrew Tarth and even Griff, all of them stared at him with wide eyes, at a loss for what to say.

“… You admit to killing your sworn brother?” Marsh asked finally, his voice both grim and unsure.

“I do,” said Jon. “He told me to do _whatever_ they asked of me, and so I did.” He looked Marsh hard in the eyes. “Had I not, had I died with Qhorin, I never could have warned Castle Black, and the Wall would be open to the wildlings even now.”

Aemon looked serene. Buckwell shocked. Tarth at a loss for words. Griff’s frown was immense, but his eyes cloudy. Yarwyck and Marsh shared a look of stunned confusion. It was Griff that finally spoke.

“Go on, boy,” he said. “Tell the rest of your tale.”

He told them of Ygritte’s support of him and Rattleshirt’s suspicion. He told them of the size and breadth of Mance Rayder’s camp. He spoke of Tormund Giantsbane and the pregnant Dalla and her sister Val. He told them the lies he said to Mance Rayder to win his trust. He recounted each of the clans and tribes that Mance had joined together to forge his army; he told them of the giants and the mammoths.

“My scouts caught sight of them, but we know not their true number. What say you, Snow?” asked Jarman Buckwell.

Jon remembered counting them at the Milkwater, but he had no definitive count. “I counted them–or I tried. I was well past fifty when my attention was diverted; there must have been hundreds,” he said. “And their mammoths as well, there must be near as many mammoths as there are giants to ride them. Gargantuan beasts., those mammoths.”

Buckwell made a grunt of agreement. “Aye, there were plenty of those.”

Jon spoke of Mance’s journey to the Fist, and the complete disappearance of the Watch. He told them of how he had attempted to mislead Mance. He told them of his assignment with the Styr and Jarl. He told them of Ygritte.

“You broke your vows with her?”

A pause. “Yes.”

The officers shared a look of thinly veiled suspicion.

“Half a hundred times, at least,” Jon continued. “Qhorin told me to do whatever was asked of me. Whatever I could do to cloak myself in their scent was an act worth doing.” _Something honorable._

“But there’s more to it, is there not?” Aemon asked shakily.

“There is.” He flexed his burned hand, as the aged maester had once instructed him to do. It had long since passed from necessity to habit, he knew, but he flexed it nonetheless. “I… cared for her.” _And I killed her. I killed her with my honor and my oaths._

Marsh made to speak, but he was cut off by Griff. “My Ser Rolly has visited Mole’s Town rather too many times,” he said, with a measure of scorn and shame. Griff looked at Marsh hard. “He has seen your Sworn Brothers partaking in his same pleasures each time.” He turned to Jon. “You have returned when many might not have. You had your chance at the life the Watch deprives you of, but you returned at great potential cost to yourself. A man cannot help his needs, cannot help that he craves what is… natural.”

“The oaths–” Marsh began.

“Am I wrong, Lord Steward?” Griff asked.

Marsh began to purple, but it was Othyll Yarwyck who spoke next. “Go on, Snow. Tell us the rest.”

Jon did.

He spoke of the treacherousness of the climbing of the Wall. He spoke of their venturing into Night’s Watch lands, and of his struggle to escape. He told them of the man that he couldn’t kill, that Ygritte had killed so contemptuously. Of the wolf.

_Bran’s wolf? Grey Wind? Who?_

And then he was here. They knew he’d ridden through Mole’s Town, and they had been present for everything at Castle Black.

“Grigg, Big Boil, Henk, and Del were all among your captives,” he said. “Any of them will corroborate my story, if you can get them to stop spitting curses at you, that is.”

Ser Jarman Buckwell chuckled. “We have ways of making wildlings talk, Lord Snow, fear you not.”

Marsh, by this time, had cooled from purple to his natural splotchy reddish face. He whispered something to Yarwyck and then to Griff. Then he nodded, a look of supreme graciousness gracing his wide countenance. “You have admitted to grave charges. You turned your cloak, broke your vows with a wildling woman, and murdered your own Sworn Brother.”

“I never turned my cloak, my Lord Steward,” Jon said. “Everything else, yes, but I never turned my cloak.”

A vein bulged in Marsh’s face, and he began to purple slightly. He took a deep breath. “ _But_ , on account of the Halfhand’s orders, _and_ your great service to the Watch in warning of the attack, you will not be thrown into an ice cell.”

Jon saw several of them nod approvingly.

“We will deliberate on your fate, and if we have any other questions, you will be sent for, Snow.”  A clear dismissal, but…

“Lord Marsh,” Jon said. “I have one request.” _It might damn me, but I must know._

Marsh’s eyes narrowed, but he bobbed his head in assent.

“The wildlings from the battle… might I burn their corpses?” He felt Griff’s eyes on him hardest of all. And Aemon’s mild disapproval. “North of the Wall, they burn their dead, and ours as well. It wouldn’t do to leave them there, not while dead men have been known to walk.”

Marsh studied his face. “Do not think me a fool, Snow,” he said. “Do it, but take none of my stewards.”

“Or my builders,” Othyll Yarwyck said.

He noted that they had not mentioned rangers, but he was no fool. Jon gave his thanks and left the room as quickly as his hobbled gait would allow. As he turned, he felt the sellsword’s gaze follow him.

* * *

 

After his questioning, there was little time left in the day. The sky had gone dark, and the stars were shining bright by that time. Black brothers huddled around braziers in the courtyard, or waited near the common hall in deference to the incoming dinner.

There was much chatter concerning the only hours-old battle. Victorious gloating, gripes over wounds taken, everything that one would think followed a battle freshly fought.

A part of him wished he could have gone, could have fought with the rest of his brothers. But another part of him knew it would have been one of the hardest things he ever would have had to do. The Thenns had been distant. Styr trusted him little enough, and he made sure to impart that same distrust on his clansmen. Few of his people spoke the common tongue, and Jon knew little beyond the scraps of the Old Tongue Ygritte had fed to him. There was little love lost between them. It would have been easy to kill a Thenn, he thought.

The rest of the raiders, the one’s Jarl had been sent to lead ( _Before he fell from the Wall,_ Jon thought with equal parts humor and shame), they would have been harder for him to kill. He had not allowed himself to become close to the rest, but they had made strides, he had to admit. He had cursed at Big Boil to cease his complaining, he had shared mead with Quort… _And Ygritte_ …

Could he have ridden her down? Could he have planted Longclaw in her belly?

He shivered.

Maybe… Maybe she had escaped. He had heard no mention of a spearwife, but men were not so keen to boast of killing women.

Jon walked the grounds of Castle Black absently, not looking for anyone or anything. He saw men he knew, and men he did not. He knew that few from the ranging had survived, as Grenn had told him everything in what seemed like the minimum number of breaths he could.

His eyes lingered on fires as he passed each one, letting the snippets of conversation wash over him. Eyes full of fire, they must have thought him dull, for every whisper of “turncloak” was all too plain to him. _I hear you¸_ he thought, _I hear you all._

Mind elsewhere, he was almost stunned when he found himself in front of Castle Black’s small sept.

He had never worshipped the new gods of the Andals. It was his father’s gods, the gods of the North, of stream and tree and wind, that had called to him. He had not disparaged the Seven, not truly, but the sept had never been his domain. Perhaps it was because of Lady Stark. His father had built the sept for her. He had brought a septon and a septa, all for his southern lady. She had prayed at it, and made it her own, with Sansa as her little miniature. Sansa, who would not call him her brother, as the others would. It was no surprise that he avoided the sept and the gods it housed, then, for it was Lady Stark’s domain. It was a place he was not welcome.

 _What about my mother?_ A part of him said, A _ll of that for Lady Stark, but nothing for mine._

But Lord Stark had brought him from the south. The North ran through his veins, but so did something else. He didn’t know what, but it was something. For every bit that Lady Stark hated him for his resemblance to his father, there was someone else in him as well. Who? A Dornish woman? Vale, maybe? Riverlands? _Lord Stark fought in the Riverlands, and Robert begat a bastard wherever he went. Maybe they both had lovers, back in the Vale and before the war._

Whoever his mother was, it was likely she was not of the North, and that her gods were not his father’s. They were the Seven. So why did he spurn his mother’s gods as he did? Was he ashamed? The Seven cared little for bastards; did he not want to call their eye to his sinning mother, if she still lived?

The sept at Castle Black had always been a pathetic thing. Septon Cellador was a drunken fool who scarcely tended to his post, and few attended any services. But now… Now, a light was lit. He heard men inside. Either one would have been unusual, but both?

He hobbled forward and up the shallow stone steps. Climbing was a bother, with his crutch, but he would become accustomed to it. He would have to until he healed. _I am in a sorry state. First my hand, then my face, then my leg. What shall I lose next?_

Jon entered the sept.

He was struck first by the number of men among the small sept’s benches. There were many at the Wall who called the Seven gods of the Andals their own, but few had been devout, it seemed to him. If this many men had been coming to the sept before, then they had been sneaking into it, surely.

The second surprise was the presence at the end of the sept. It was not the disheveled form of Septon Cellador, but someone he did not know. A woman, dressed in the white of a septa–the white robes of Septa Mordane, who had always scorned him. Who could always spare him a glare as they passed in the warm halls of Winterfell. She was not Septa Mordane though, she was younger, much younger. She was not a maid, that was clear, but she could only have been a handful of years older than Lady Stark. Her hair was a hearty brown, the brown that indicated she may have been fair haired in her youth. She was an attractive woman, easily more beautiful than any of the whores from Mole’s Town.

He found an empty seat and sat. Her eyes had gone to his when he entered, but they had quickly refocused elsewhere. He realized that while there were many black brothers here, that brothers were not all that had come to the sept, though he saw Ulmer there, and even Donal Noye. He saw many of Mole’s Town, including the whores, even.

It was a comfort to them, he supposed.

The septa led a prayer. Septon Cellador sat off to the side, visibly disgruntled. She lit each of the seven candles in turn, but stopped on the Stranger. Even the most pious tended not to speak of the Stranger.

“The Night’s Watch lost three of its own this day,” she said, her voice projecting across the small sept with ease. “Ser Aladale Wynch, Harlan of Gulltown, and Gawin of King’s Landing.” She bowed her head. “Whatever brought them to the Wall, be it the pursuit of honor or the atonement for past sins, each of them fought with valor in defense of the realm. The Stranger came for them, and they went; the Father will judge them justly. Please, hold them in your prayers tonight.” And then she lit the candle below the cowled visage of the Stranger.

There was a chorus of prayers.

Then the septa began a more formalized prayer. At times, she would say something, and the worshippers would respond with some memorized snippet. Jon was completely lost, but he stayed anyway.

He kept his brothers whose fates he did not know, blood and Sworn both in his thoughts: Sam and baby Rickon and Bran. He thought of the old man whose throat Ygritte had opened. He thought of Ygritte. He thought of his mother, whoever and wherever she was.

Jon had long offered short prayers to his father’s gods; he could spare a night for his mother’s.

* * *

 

The next day, after he broke his fast and checked in with Aemon concerning the healing of his wound, Jon found himself a pair of decent horses and a wain in good enough condition. He loaded the wain with firewood with the help of Owen the Oaf, who he had been lucky enough to catch by chance. Owen was always willing to help, and was bigger and stronger than Jon besides.

“Can I go with you, Lord Snow?” Owen asked as he finished filling the cart.

Jon shook his head. “Sorry Owen, Lord Steward’s orders. I must go it alone.”

The expression of sadness on Owen’s big face almost made him let the blonde giant come along anyway, but he thought better of it. There was no use drawing anymore ire from the high officers. He was lucky to have his head; had it been Alliser Thorne in there, he would surely have already been a dead man.

He saddled one horse, attached both to the wain, stored his crutch with the wood, and then mounted up. He would not push them hard, for it was a heavy load. He watched many eyes stare his way as he left Castle Black, and he heard many whispers. The clamor of hooves on earth and gravel made it difficult to hear, but he knew what they said regardless. _Turncloak_.

The Wall wept slick blue tears in the morning light as he left. Jon admired the clearness of the sky, and tried not to think of Ygritte.

 _You should have stayed in that tower,_ he thought, _it would have been your castle._

She had not been captured, but that did not mean she was dead. She was as quick as she was fierce, she could have escaped the second she heard the horses. But she was stubborn too. And proud.

Jon followed the Kingsroad south, for they had battled only short distance from Mole’s Town. For whatever reason, Styr had led his men right up the road. Why they had not attempted subterfuge, or simply retreated after his escape, Jon could not say. _They must have been certain Mance’s feints would work._

The Kingsroad was rough here, especially in light of the storm of horses that had ridden hard down it just yesterday. It was hard going for his pair of horses, but Jon found solace in the fact that the return trip would be easier on them. An empty cart was always an easier haul.

Jon had to suppress outrage when he crested the low hill that preceded the battlefield; there was someone picking about the wildling corpses, it seemed. It was the victor’s right though. The wildlings took anything of value they could when they killed a wayward ranger, it was only fair to visit the same upon the wildlings. He drew closer though, and realized he recognized the person.

It was the septa.

He drew closer still, and saw that she wasn’t looting the bodies either. She was gathering them together. She waved to him.

Jon waved back hesitantly. He didn’t know remember her name, but Pyp had explained ber well enough. She was one of Griff the sellsword’s party, and she had taken to repairing the sept since her arrival at Castle Black ( _“Many are quite smitten with her, myself included,”_ Pyp had said with a smirk and a wiggle of his ears).

When Jon finally had drawn up to her, he dismounted as best he could with his wounded leg; it was not graceful. “I’m afraid I do not know your name, septa,” he called, feigning good cheer, “else I would offer greetings.” He withdrew his crutch from the back of the cart, and hobbled around to her.

“Lemore,” she said as he neared her. “Septa Lemore.”

Up close, Jon saw that his impressions from the night before had not been in error. She was a handsome woman, but the sad glint to her dark eyes dimmed it somewhat. He looked to the bodies she had gathered.

A number of Thenns, and a few of Jarl’s men, including Quort. It seemed she had looted them after all. The Thenns had had their bronze scales removed, and all of their weapons were lying in a pile to the side.

He looked back up to her.

“I came here to burn them,” Jon said, indicating to the cart full of firewood. He couldn’t help the hint of accusation that leaked into his tone.

“I know,” she replied. “As did I.”

He looked pointedly to the pile of weapons and the armor.

She smiled a rueful smile. “Bronze does not burn especially well,” she said. “And why burn what the Watch might use?”

The septa was right, Jon knew. There was no use in burning the wildlings’ armaments.

“I have no need of such things anyway, if that was your thought,” Lemore continued.

It was, but Jon saw no reason to say that.

“Do you have much experience burning the dead?” Jon asked instead, though it was only marginally less tactless.

“No,” she said. “Whether they worshipped my gods or not, every man deserves a proper burial. If the wildlings burn their dead, then so it shall be.”

Jon bowed his head. “Thank you,” he replied. “The Lord Steward bade me do it alone; your aid is appreciated.” He looked to the bodies of the slain wildlings again. He did not see Ygritte among them. Perhaps… “Did you find a girl, among them? Red hair? Blue-grey eyes–”

The way her face fell, he knew his hope had been in vain. Every year seemed to show on her face at once. She was a woman who had seen death. His heart sank.

“I did.” She gestured away, to a thicket that had been miraculously untrampled. “She is there. I did what I could, but… do not move her head.”

Jon understood.

He walked slowly. More slowly even than he had to. Every step plunged his heart yet deeper into his chest, and stuck his words further into his throat. When he saw her, he found that his mouth was dry; the moisture had gone to his eyes, it seemed.

She looked serene, he thought. Or he wanted to think, he didn’t know. Her eyes were closed, and if he let the tears fall, he could pretend she was sleeping. But he didn’t let them fall, and he knew she wasn’t sleeping. Lemore had placed her hands over her stomach, but even that could not disguise the great brown patch of blood that coated her sheepskins. A second bloodstain was at her collar.

 _Ygritte…_ he thought. _Damn it all._ He ground his teeth hard, and brought his black sleeve to his eyes. _You should have gone with Longspear Ryk, or taken a horse and ridden south. Found a man, let him steal you._ He tasted salt. _Like I did._

“Damn it,” he said through clenched teeth.

* * *

 

He helped Lemore with the Thenns and Quort and the rest of the wildlings. He gathered the rest together and organized a funeral pyre to the best of his ability. Lemore said nothing when he burned Ygritte alone in the thicket. He would have taken her beyond the Wall, to be with her people, with her gods, but he dared not. Not with everything else the officers knew.

He helped load the wildling weapons and armor into the wain, and then let her use the saddled horse while he rode as cargo. It was a silent ride, and it suited Jon just fine.

* * *

 

That night he did not go the sept. Could not.

He found himself standing alone at a brazier near the Lance. The Lance was all but unused on account of its disrepair. Grenn was atop the wall, while Pyp and Halder and Toad and even Dareon (who he had not seen in some time) were all still constructing the new prison for the wildlings. There were not enough ice cells for them all, but Jon still questioned the sense in the building of a stockade when they would soon be under attack. _What else can we do? Put them all to the sword?_

Jon stared into the fire and felt nothing. No warmth.

The Wall had not been cold to him, not since the Frostfangs, but he kept to the fires anyway. More out of habit than anything else.

He felt hollow. He had done the right thing, coming back to the Wall, he knew he had. Everything his father had ever taught him, everything _anyone_ had ever taught him, told him that he had done the right thing. He had hewed to his duty, to the honorable thing, to his _vows_.

 _Then why do I feel this way?_ he thought.

He heard her familiar refrain, ‘ _You know nothing Jon Snow.’_

_You were right, Ygritte; I know nothing._

An unfamiliar voice cut through his thoughts, through his brooding.

“Hey, turncloak–”

Jon’s gaze slid away from the fire and to the newcomer.

“–that’s what some are calling you. Turncloak.”

It was the sellsword’s son that Pyp and Grenn had mentioned, the one who had worn the black plate. He was tall, a good few inches taller than Jon, and lithe. His hair was long, longer than Jon’s even, but dyed blue. He was comely as well, but he so straddled the line between handsome and girlishly pretty that he was positive Sansa would have fallen in love instantaneously. He bore little resemblance to his father beyond his dyed blue hair, Jon noted. He wore dark furs and a smirk that felt off.

“Of course, others call you Lord Snow,” the boy said, meeting his eyes; they were dark and striking. “and others just Jon. Which do you prefer?”

“I am no turncloak,” Jon replied, “Jon is enough. It is the name my father gave me, and I am no lord.”

The blue haired sellsword’s son nodded. “I didn’t think you went turncloak, if it consoles you any,” the boy’s smirk fell into something else. He was about Jon’s own age he figured, perhaps older, or perhaps younger. “Your brothers sang your praises to the seven heavens, I would have been disappointed.” He paused. “But not surprised, I suppose.”

“Why?” Jon asked.

“Because you’re a bastard,” the boy said.

Jon felt fury flood into him, but he tried not to let it show; he made his face ice, as Lord Stark had. “Oh? And what do you know of being a bastard?”

The boy shrugged. “Precious little, I’d think.” He looked at Jon hard. “Except… Haldon has told me you bastards often get a raw deal, here in Westeros.”

“Who is Haldon?”

The boy waved a hand noncommittally. “What I mean to say, Jon Snow, is that I can understand why one might do the dishonorable thing, if the life the Gods graced you with was an unfair one.” A look flashed over the boy’s face, and Jon felt his emotion drain out of him. “The Gods in Essos don’t mind so much about bastards, a soul is a soul to them.”

Jon couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the statement.

The tall blue haired Essosi finally came closer, standing to his side.

“I’m Griff, if it pleases you, my Lord Snow.”

Jon quirked an eyebrow. “I thought your father was Griff?”

“He is, but I am too.” It was very uncommon for a father to give his son the same name this side of the Narrow Sea; in fact, Jon could only recall Lord Umber doing so. Seeming to guess Jon’s reservations, the boy continued. “I am amenable to Young Griff.”

Jon grunted his understanding, then they stared into the fire for a time. In the firelight, Young Griff’s eyes appeared almost purple.

When Young Griff spoke again, his tone was somber. “Does killing ever grow easy?”

Jon thought of his father.

“Not for good men, I think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Jon Snow chapter! Hope it didn't disappoint. There's a couple more slow chapters coming up, but then I'm going to try to pick up the pace some and get to the main event.
> 
> As always, if there's any errors in spelling or lore lemme know and I'll fix it up, and if you have any questions, ask down below and I'd be willing to answer.
> 
> Until next week!


	15. Asking Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shireen has a few questions about dragons

* * *

_Chapter XV: Asking Questions_

“Maester Pylos, have you ever seen a dragon egg?” Shireen asked.

It was the end of a long day of lessons. Shireen had been attentive, as she always was, as had Devan, but Edric had clearly been itching to leave the stuffy maester’s quarters and feel the salty bite of the sea air for some time. By his frown and glare, it was clear he that was not pleased that she was extending their lessons even further with her questions.

Pylos turned to her. He was so much younger than Cressen, that at times it still shocked her, even though it had been nearly a year since he died. He was kind, though, and always had time for her. Had time for any of them, even before Devan’s father had been made Lord Hand.

“I have, princess, what brings you to ask?”

She had been having so many dreams lately. Ever since she went into the Dragonmont, and saw the magma (she had asked Pylos about the earthfires as well, and he had told her the _proper_ name for it was magma), her dreams had been filled with dragons. When she was young, she had often dreamt of the Dance of the Dragons, and all of the terrible things that occurred during those terrible years. The battles and burnings and violence. She dreamt more of the years before the Dance now. She saw the great tourney King Jaehaerys hosted near the end of his life, when more dragons flew in the sky than ever had since the Doom. Vermithor, Vhagar, Silverwing, Caraxes, and more. Beautiful and splendid.

She dreamed of a future too. Of dragons purple, black, brown, green, and white, and a myriad smaller spots in the sky. A world come alive with fire and scale.

And when she woke, she would seek her stone. Always, it was warm.

She had begun to think…

“I’m just curious,” she said shyly. “This is Dragonstone. This is where the dragons once laid their eggs, and yet, I have never seen one. What was it like?”

Pylos fetched a piece of parchment, and dipped his quill in ink. “I can show you,” he said, as he began to draw. The picture came together quickly, for Pylos was a skilled artist.

Or at least, Shireen thought he was skilled. Artists were not often brought to Dragonstone, for her father saw relatively little use in patronizing them. Pylos never boasted of it, but often he would draw something out to show them a particularly interesting object or building. Having a picture made learning more fun.

After only a minute or two, he set aside his quill, and held the parchment up to them.

“It looks like an egg,” Edric said flatly.

Pylos laughed lightly. “Of course it does, but if you look closely, you will see that it has scales.” He pointed at the finer details of his drawing, then set it down. “The egg was large, near the size of my own head.” He approximated the size with his hands. “It was black, but all along the scales of it, one could spy flecks of red. When turned in the light, it would glitter and shine.”

“Did you get to touch it?” asked Devan. “What did it feel like?”

“We were allowed only a moment’s touch,” Pylos answered. “The egg did not just bear the _appearance_ of scales, but the feel of them as well. It was cool to the hand, as any stone might be. The eggs of dragons all became stone, in the end.”

Devan’s and Edric’s eyes both shifted to hers.

Her stone was warm though, to her at least. What could it mean? “They were not always cold, were they?” Shireen asked.

The maester shook his head, and the chain of his office clinked noisily. “They were not. It is said that when the dragons still lived and bred, their eggs were always warm. Hot, even, for inside they bore an infant dragon.” He gestured to the nearby window. “Before the days of the Dance, there had been many a wild dragon. The Cannibal, Grey Ghost, the Sheepstealer. At one time, there were more dragons than there were dragonriders, and many eggs to go around. The maesters write that the Targaryens once placed dragon eggs in the cradles of their babes, so that they might grow together.”

“What happened to the eggs?” Edric asked.

“As the years passed, and it became clear that the eggs would not hatch, the Targaryen kings began to sell the eggs. They became quite valuable after the last clutch was laid, not that they had been ordinary before.” He tapped his maester’s chain. “That is how the egg came to the Citadel, in fact. A wealthy magister from the Free Cities brought it to there, and bade us study it.”

Shireen’s breath was even, and she felt oddly focused. “What did you find?”

“Sadly, nothing that was not already known. The archmaesters let the lower maesters study it only briefly, before claiming domain over the research. When done, it was given back to the magister.” Pylos touched the drawing of the egg lightly. “It was petrified–turned to stone– as all other eggs since the death of the last dragon have been.”

She had learned of the last dragon, with Cressen. But Devan had not yet begun to take lessons with her, and Edric had still been at Storm’s End. “When did the last dragon die?” Devan asked.

Shireen answered for Pylos. “During the reign of King Aegon the Dragonbane.”

“That was the third King Aegon,” Edric added. “After the Dance.”

Pylos nodded sagely. “Yes. That title was bestowed upon him because of the death of the dragons during his reign. The last dragon was a young female, small, and stunted. She could not fly, and she was only the size of a large hound. She died sickly, and with her, so went the magic of the world.” He smiled. “Or so the archmaesters say.”

“She laid eggs, didn’t she?” Shireen asked.

Another nod. “That she did, and they were the last five eggs ever laid.” A distant look came over him. “Archmaester Marwyn claimed that the eggs were misshapen and small, as their mother had been, but no less beautiful than the rest.” He laughed. “But Marwyn says many things.” At their visible confusion, he continued. “Marwyn is the Archmaester of Magic.”

“Is he a wizard?” Edric asked excitedly.

This brought a deep laugh to Pylos’s lips. “A wizard?” he laughed again. “No, not a wizard at all. Many called him Marwyn the Mage, however.” He finally calmed, and in his usual sedate tone, said, “As the Archmaester of Magic, it is his duty to study the magic of old, and to investigate possible occurrences in the present. There are many who claim to control magical forces, and it is in the Citadel’s interest to know the truth of it.”

Edric disappointment was palpable, while Devan looked almost skeptical. Sensing the end of their curiosity, Pylos shuffled the drawn picture of the dragon egg away, and began to tidy up.

But Shireen did have a last question. “The dragon eggs, how did they hatch?”

“How?” Pylos asked with a quirked eyebrow.

“What made them hatch? Was it the mother dragon? Is that why there have been no more, perhaps? Without a mother to keep them warm, the eggs cannot quicken.”

He pondered the question for a moment. “The Citadel does not believe the mother dragon was necessary for the eggs to hatch. What we call she-dragons are merely those dragons that were observed laying eggs, while the others were assumed male. Some believe the dragons were neither male nor female, but something between. Or perhaps they could alter, and become male or female. The Citadel is unsure, and with dragons extinct, it is likely we will never know.”

“Then what do the maesters think?”

“Most eggs that hatched under the Targaryen kings did so on their own. They were deep within the caverns and tunnels of the Dragonmont. Some maesters believe it is the magma within the Dragonmont that allowed the eggs to hatch, but if that were all, then there would be dragons still. The she-dragons would at times guard the eggs, but not always. Else, the Cannibal would not have earned its name.”

Shireen shivered. She hated the pictures of the Cannibal in her books. It was drawn in horrible detail, eating fragile young dragons that could not defend themselves yet. It had never been tamed, not like the Sheepstealer had been.

“That is enough talk of dragons and their eggs,” he said. “Go now, play your games.” He waved his hands as them, and that was all of the encouragement Edric needed to flee from the room as an arrow from a bow. Devan had the respect to wait for her. She always appreciated that in Devan.

As she left, she thanked Pylos and bowed deeply to him. He had given her much to think on, as he always did.

* * *

 

Edric and Devan were always trying to exclude Patches, but this time she didn’t let them. Even if he just danced around and sang and followed them, it at least made him happy. And seeing him happy made her happy. They should want her to be happy.

They found him near the kitchens dancing absentmindedly. The bells in his antlers were jingling and jangling and he hopped from foot to foot. He perked up instantly when he caught sight of them, and ran to her a-ringing. The others did not know his expressions like she did, but she knew he was happy to see her.

 _“Under the sea, the fires burn cold, I know, I know, oh oh oh!”_ he sang excitedly.

Edric crossed his arms. “The fires don’t burn under the sea at all you stupid fool.”

She glared at her cousin. “Don’t be mean, Edric.”

Devan shook his head and ushered them away. Edric was often the leader of them, but Devan had a tendency to ignore their arguments. And they would always follow him if he suddenly walked away, as they did then.

At least, Patches was not singing his scary song. She could not blame Edric and Devan for their distaste of him when he decided to sing that song.

“Where are we going, Devan?” she asked uncertainly. “To the gardens?”

“To your room,” he said, instead.

Her mother had shuddered and shouted when she discovered that she had let the boys into her chambers, but she had kept doing it anyway. She just made sure to enter and exit quickly. Still, he had never _told_ her that they were going to her room, she had always been the one to take them there.

She couldn’t help the blush that came to her cheeks, though she knew the grayscale obscured some of it. “Why?” she mumbled.

 _“Under the sea, the fish don’t have rooms, they have clams! I know, I know, oh oh oh!”_ Patches sang as he jangled along behind them.

“I want to look at your stone,” Devan said simply. “My father might be commonborn, but he is a lord now, and I am no fool.”

“I didn’t say you were a fool…”

“I know.” He shrugged. “…I caught on to your questions,” Devan said with a hint of apology.

Edric jumped up. “And I did too! You think that stone of yours is an _egg_.”

Shireen hushed them quickly. _“Quiet_ ,” she hissed. “…I don’t want people to know.”

_“Eggs for the crabs and eggs for the shrimp, eggs for the strong and eggs for the limp!”_

Edric shot the fool a glare. “Why not?”

In truth, she didn’t know why not. She just didn’t. Perhaps it was because people thought so little of her already, because she was not fair, and because she was timid; she did not want them to think her weak of mind as well.  The ugly princess clutching at a stone and thinking it a dragon. They would laugh at her, and laugh at her father too. She didn’t want that.

“Just don’t talk about it, please?”

“ _Fine,_ ” Edric drawled.

Devan turned to her and smiled, “I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “I promise.” He had an honest face. Father once told her an honest face was a good thing, as so many men are liars. Perhaps that was why he liked Davos so much.

Devan led them quickly through the halls, Patches singing and dancing all the while. When she had her friends with her, the men they passed tended to be less deferential to her, but she still received a handful of bows and murmurs of “Princess”.

“Why are you not attending the king, Devan?” Edric asked as they walked.

Her father had truly begun walking the castle and seeing to administration in the past days and weeks. He attended the nightfires with mother, and suppers as well at times. Despite his often harsh presence, Dragonstone felt brighter now. Or as bright as Dragonstone was wont to get, at least.

“Bryen Farring is seeing to him today,” Devan replied. “His Grace has no need for two squires every day.”

Devan took immense pride in his duties as squire, she knew. Even now, the doublet he wore bore the burning heart of Baratheon, as well as the black ship of Seaworth. He had, months ago now, gushed to her over his role in father’s retrieving of Lightbringer. Devan was the younger of her father’s two squires; Bryen did not talk to her like Devan did, he was all propriety.

Not that Devan was ever cruel or salacious to her; he was always good.

When they entered the hall that housed her chambers, Shireen looked about for any prying eyes before letting them into her room proper. The hall was empty, so they were within quickly. She greeted Silverwing as she closed the door behind them.

Edric looked all around with a skeptical eye. She had not brought him into her room before, she realized belatedly. “Don’t act queer, cousin,” she said.

“It’s the first lady’s room I’ve been inside, is all,” he said with a laugh. “I believe I set my expectations too high. This looks like any other room.”

She suppressed a giggle. “What were you expecting?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know… dresses all over, maybe? A great big looking glass?”

“That’s what chests are for, stupid,” Devan said with a smirk. “And the maids.”

Edric made to smack at Devan, but Shireen pushed him away with a laugh. “Don’t be mean, either of you.” She chided.

Her cousin shook his head and waved a threatening fist at the squire. “Try it again and I’ll break you,” he said with little malice. “Now coz, where’s that egg?”

“We don’t know if it’s an egg yet,” said Devan.

“It must be,” Edric said, “Remember the vision she had? With the dragon? You’re the one who believes all that about the fires, not me.”

As they chattered, she withdrew her ‘secret’ chest from beneath her bed. She had left the stone on top, as she had taken to doing. She handled it most every night now, so she wanted to ensure that it wasn’t buried beneath her other keepsakes. She scooped it out of the chest and handed it to Edric before shutting the chest; she didn’t want them to see _everything_ she held dear.

Patches perched in her comfortable reading chair, humming a little tune to himself.

Edric held out the stone, rubbing a hand on the purple-and-silver surface of the not quite spherical stone. Devan reached a hand out and smoothly traced the ‘scales’. “It does feel like scales,” Edric said.

Devan nodded excitedly. “It _does_. Just like the lizards on the beaches!”

 _“Scales of red and scales of black, what’s lost in the sea doesn’t come back!”_ Patches sang cheerily.

Edric and Devan both shot an annoyed look at the tattooed fool, but otherwise ignored him. “Pylos said it was cool to the touch,” Edric said, “and it definitely is!”

Devan turned to her. “Princess, His Grace needs this. If it’s really an egg, King Stannis can pay mercenaries with it. He could fight the Lannisters again!”

Devan hid it well, but Shireen knew that the deaths of his older brothers had affected him severely. He wanted vengeance. Many did. But…

“…It’s not cold though,” she said, almost having to force the words from her lips.

Devan looked confused. “What are you talking about, princess? It’s as cold as any stone!”

“Not to me,” she continued.

Edric shifted the egg in his grasp. “Coz?”

She shook her head. “When I touch the stone, I feel warmth. Sometimes, it becomes hot. Really hot.” She touched the stone. “Right now, it’s warm, as a person would be.”

Both of them gaped at her. “Truly?” Devan asked.

She bobbed her head up and down.

Devan touched it again, but withdrew his hand quickly, confusion and awe painting his face. “That’s… amazing,” he said breathlessly.

“It’s magic!” Edric said. “Like the king’s sword, it must be!”

“But why can only I feel it?” Shireen said. “Why is it warm to me and cold to you?”

Edric looked quizzical then; his brow furrowed and his jaw set in concentration. “I cannot say.”

Devan pointed at the burning heart pin he wore. “Lady Melisandre says His Grace is Azor Ahai reborn!” Then to Shireen. “Wouldn’t the daughter of Azor Ahai be near as important?”

Would it? Beyond Daenys the Dreamer, her knowledge of prophecy was rather inadequate and her knowledge of Azor Ahai himself even less. She had heard Melisandre preach of him, but knew little besides what the red woman said at the nightfires.

“…It could be that,” Edric said, clearly conflicted. He had not taken to the Lord of Light as many on Dragonstone had. He had stuck close to the Gods of his father, especially the Warrior.

“My great grandmother was Targaryen,” Shireen said, “Father’s grandmother was the daughter of King Aegon V. Maybe–”

Edric shook his head. “She is one of my great grandmothers as well, yet I feel nothing.” His mouth set into a frown.

“Were all dragonriders Targaryen?” Devan asked. “Has there ever been a Baratheon dragonrider?”

“No Baratheon,” Shireen said, “but there were those outside the Targaryen family that rode dragons.”

“The Velaryons rode dragons too,” Edric said.

Shireen thought of Aurane Waters. He was no true Velaryon, only a bastard, but he had been kind to her. Swaggering and arrogant, but kind. _And very handsome_ , a part of her whispered, to her shame.

“Lucerys Velaryon and Aemond One Eye fought on their dragons right above Storm’s End!” Edric continued, “Over Shipbreaker Bay, during the Dance. Though…”

“…the maesters say Lucerys was no Velaryon at all, but one of Rhaenyra’s bastards,” Shireen finished.

Devan looked completely lost. He had only begun taking his lessons with Shireen recently, and did not command the same control of history that she did. To be honest, she was surprised Edric remembered as much as he seemed to, since he always cared so little for Pylos’s lessons outside the battles. “Rhaenyra’s bastards?”

“Rhaenyra’s first three sons were born while she was married to Laenor Velaryon.” She frowned. “But it’s said that they looked nothing like their supposed father, and instead like her sworn shield, Ser Harwin Strong.”

 “There were the dragonseeds though, weren’t there? Ulf the White and Addam Velaryon and the rest.” Edric said.

She hated Ulf the White. He had taken Queen Alysanne’s beloved Silverwing and made her do terrible things. When Cressen had told her about that, she had cried. “Addam wasn’t a Velaryon at first, he was legitimized,” she said.

Edric scrunched up his face. “…They were all Valyrian, though, I suppose. The blood of old Valyria flowed in all of them. Targaryens and Velaryons both came from the Freehold! They’re not Andals like the Durrandons or Florents.” He looked to Devan, and added, “or the Seaworths.”

 “So there never was a dragonrider who didn’t have Valyrian blood?” Devan asked. He sounded sad, almost.

Shireen hummed. “There was Nettles… during the Dance.”

“I thought she was a dragonseed?” Edric said.

“Well…” She grasped at her dress. “Cressen… my old maester... he said the Targaryens might not have wanted anyone else to know they could ride dragons too.”

“I thought she was from Driftmark,” Edric said. He gestured at himself. “You know how Lords get…”

_“Shadows come to dance my lord dance my lord dance my lord…”_

Why did he have to sing that song? “…Well, maybe she was a Velaryon bastard. That’s what the maesters like to say.” She twisted the fabric of her dress between her fingers. “But.. well… Cressen said that she was dark skinned, and dark haired too. She didn’t look like she had Valyrian blood in her.” Neither did the Baratheons, she knew, but Nettles had seemed different to her. “She didn’t get her dragon the normal way either,” she said. “He was wild, but she fed him a sheep every day until he liked her, and then she mounted him.”

Edric clapped. “Of course, the Sheepstealer!”

“There was a dragon called Sheepstealer?” Devan laughed uproariously. “That must be the least frightening dragon ever!”

Shireen giggled too, finally letting go of her dress. “Sheepstealer didn’t fight much in the Dance.”

“I’d think as much, with a name like that,” Devan said, laughing again.

After they calmed, Edric touched the stone. “Well, whether she was a dragonseed or not, we _know_ that you and I both have some dragonblood in us. But only _you_ feel the heat.” He smiled at her. “I think it’s definitely a dragon egg, and I think you’re going to hatch it, coz.”

The thought of a dragon… A real dragon, living and breathing, and flying. Once it would have scared her, now it excited her. It filled her with a glee she had never known.

And her vision… She had seen her Silverwing in the flames, and Silverwing had led her to the egg. _It has to be an egg,_ she thought, _it must._ And that meant… the Lord of Light–

“I think it’s unfair though,” Edric said, turning the egg over in his hands. “ _I’m_ the one who found it!”

Giggling, Shireen seized the egg from him. “It was _my_ vision that led us to it!” She said, “It’s mine!”

Edric made to grab at the egg but was blocked by Devan. Devan drew an imaginary sword.

“I’ll protect you from this nonbeliever,” Devan said, “my life is yours, Princess.”

The two boys fought, all three of them laughed, and Patches sang of shadows and monsters beneath the sea and danced all the while. She was glad to have them all here; life had been harder before.

The whole time, she held the egg close, giving it her heat and feeling its own.

* * *

 

Shireen attended the nightfires that night. Since her father’s coronation as king, she had attended more often than she had before, but she still had never attended as devoutly as others had. When she went, it was more to please mother than anything else. Tonight, she wore one of her dresses with pockets sewn in, and she held her egg in it. It burned pleasantly against her thigh.

When she found mother, the normally harsh face of Selyse Florent softened as much as it was ever like to. “Come Shireen,” she had said, her voice less imperious than usual, “the Lady Melisandre awaits us.”

Father was waiting for them already, and the great brazier that sat in the middle of the courtyard was yet unlit. Worshippers were filtering into the courtyard.

“Your Grace,” mother said as they drew up alongside father.

He nodded. “My queen,” he rumbled. His stark blue eyes shifted down to Shireen. “Shireen.”

Shireen smiled at him; she felt the egg almost pulse at her thigh. “Father,” she said, curtseying.

He appraised the two of them, but said nothing else.

Together, they waited for the rest of Rh’llor’s faithful. It took only a short while for the men and women of Melisandre’s congregation to appear. Ser Axell was always dutiful, and very fervent in his belief. Lord Alester had once been as well, but he was a traitor, and imprisoned deep in the cells of Dragonstone now.

Melisandre appeared last, as she always did at her nightfires. She came bearing a torch, and in several long strides was upon the unlit brazier. She lit it carefully, and the great nightfire roared to life, faster than any normal fire. She waved her hand and the fire in the torch ceased to burn; she set it down and then took her place at the head of the gathering.

“Lead us from the darkness, O my Lord. Fill our hearts with fire, so we may walk your shining path,” Melisandre’s voice echoed out in her deep musical tones.

Shireen felt the fire. She saw it leap and dance. Its orange glow cast terrible shadows amid the gargoyles and dragons and hell hounds that lined the walls and parapets of Dragonstone, but she found that she was not scared. She felt warm inside. She felt protected.

“Rh’llor,” Melisandre sang to the fires, to the sky, “you are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins. Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night.” The stars did twinkle up in the darkening sky, shining down on them what light they could.

Perhaps it was because of her parents, that they both stood with her, however serious their faces and set their gazes. Perhaps it was because of her pride in herself, that Silverwing had led her to something after all. Perhaps it was that she held a dragon at her side, that she would rebirth a legend. Perhaps it was all of it, perhaps it was none of it. Perhaps she finally believed. But when her mother raised her voice high, and led the response, Shireen joined her.

 _“Lord of Light, defend us. The night is dark and full of terrors,”_ she called out with the crowd of believers.

And when time came for the next response, she found that her father joined it too. The king, his queen, and his princess sang out in unison, and Shireen felt warmer than she ever had before.

 _“We thank you for our hearths and our torches, that keep the savage dark at bay,”_ they sang.

_And I thank you, for letting me see Silverwing in the fire._

* * *

 

After the nightfire ceremony, Melisandre came to them. She nodded to each of them in turn. “Your Graces… Princess,” she said, with a surprisingly delicate smile.

“Lady Melisandre,” mother said reverently, “it has come to pass. The princess has joined us in His light.” Mother smiled broadly.

Shireen felt embarrassed, and looked down at her feet.

“She has looked into the flames, and Rh’llor granted her His sight. It was only a matter of time, Your Grace.” Her tone became more forceful. “Do not look down so, princess. You are the daughter of Azor Ahai reborn; none save your father are worthy of such deference.”

When Shireen struggled to raise her gaze, she felt a rough finger under her chin. “Up,” her father said. “You are my heir. Act as such.” She finally did, and the warmth at her thigh was dwarfed by the warmth in her cheeks. Her father’s hand returned to his side as quick as anything she had ever seen.

“I’m sorry father,” she said. “I don’t mean to...”

“Enough,” her mother said. “Remember your place, Shireen. You will be queen.” It was half reprimanding and half prideful, but it did ease her spirit somehow.

Melisandre offered her a brief smile, but then turned to her mother and father. “Your Graces, I must make a request of you.”

“Make it then,” her father said before her mother could respond.

“I require the assistance of a bard.”

Her father coughed suddenly. “A bard?” His teeth were clenched. “What could you possibly have need of a bard for?”

Melisandre touched Shireen’s shoulder. “The princess offered a wondrous suggestion. I would translate my songs from the tongues of Valyria and Asshai to your common tongue.”

Now her father looked simply confused. “Why?” he asked, his tone curiously unguarded.

“Because almost everyone likes to sing,” Shireen said, surprising both her parents. “In the septs, everyone sings. We can’t sing in a tongue we do not know.”

Her mother puffed up. “It is indeed a wondrous idea, my lady.” She granted Shireen a look of genuine pride as well. “I will see it done,” she said. “You will have your bard, the best on Dragonstone.”

The king waved a dismissive hand. “Very well,” he said. “But I will have no fool prancing about in my halls begging for coin. I have enough fools and beggars both. Ensure he is well used and well occupied.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Melisandre replied gratefully. A fierce glint came to her eyes then, “and the boy–”

Her father growled. “One king is not three. I will not hear of this again.”

The Lady Melisandre glanced down to her, the glint to her ruby red eyes vanishing. She smiled. “Yes, Your Grace.” She bowed to them, and hurried off to see to whatever other religious rites she performed. The nightfire was a long process in and of itself, but for the priest or priestess, there was yet more they had to do. Shireen did not know the particulars, and was puzzled at the mentions of kings besides.

She saw Devan collecting the torch that Lady Melisandre had left behind, and, bowing to her mother and father quickly, trotted up to meet him.

Leaning in to him conspiratorially, she whispered, “I brought the egg.”

He smirked. “Did it feel any different?”

“I think so,” she replied. This close to the nightfire, it was very hot, but the egg was even moreso. It liked the fire. She was certain of it.

“We’ll hatch this dragon yet!” he said, rather too loudly.

But her parents were far away and–

“–what’s this I hear about hatching a dragon?”  

Shireen nearly jumped out of her skin. But she recognized the voice, and she knew the man. “Lord Davos!” she said, in fright as well as greeting.

He beamed at her, but bowed deeply. “My princess, just Davos is enough for me,” he said humbly.

“ _Father,_ ” Devan groaned. “You are the Lord Hand!”

Davos laughed. “In my heart I am a smuggler yet.” His kindly brown eyes became calculating. “But what is this about a dragon, Devan?”

Despite Davos’s “common” face (that’s what her mother said, at least) and slight stature, with his dark bushy beard her father’s Hand could appear threatening if he so chose to. Devan swallowed his words and looked to Shireen for assistance.

“We learned about dragon eggs today,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. She liked to tell the truth if she could, her father had made it all but an instinct in her. “Maester Pylos told us all about them.”

Devan seized upon it. “We were wondering if this fire could hatch a dragon egg!” he said, with all the honesty of an accomplished liar.

Humming, Davos looked from one of them to the other. “It is not especially wise to play with fire,” he said, the kindliness returning in full force. “Be careful, princess. I was only on my way to discuss higher concerns with His Grace, and wished to see my son for a moment.” The knight turned lord mussed his son’s hair. “I will see you at supper, Devan.” But as he turned to leave, something occurred to Shireen, and she called for him to stop. “Princess?”

“Lord Davos, you were a smuggler for many years, were you not?” She asked.

“…I was,” he answered, unsure.

“You went all over the world, yes?”

He nodded. “From Skagos to the Free Cities, princess.”

She hesitated. “… and did you ever hear about people out there, trying to hatch dragon eggs?”

“In every port from Ib to Oldtown there are men who talk of dragons,” he said, his brow furrowing. “But I cannot say I have heard of men hatching them, or even trying. The dragons are dead, princess, Maester Pylos would say the same.”

“What did they talk of, then?” Shireen persisted.

“They claimed to have seen one, or to know a man who had.” A laugh that didn’t reach his eyes rumbled from him. “But sailors are an untrustworthy lot, and prone to tall tales once they’re in their cups. If I had a golden dragon for every man that claimed to have been romanced by a mermaid, I never would have smuggled.”

She frowned. “It’s sad, that they don’t live beyond Westeros still.”

A strained smile fell over the Hand’s face. “The world is dangerous enough without them, princess. Be thankful that they are gone.” He stared at the still blazing nightfire briefly, then offered a bow. “Princess, I must go.”

Devan watched his father’s retreating back, and they watched the king and his Hand leave the courtyard together. Shireen heard her mother call for her. She turned back to her father’s squire.

“Goodnight Devan.”

“Goodnight Princess.”

He ran off then, clutching the unlit torch that the red priestess had used to light the nightfire. Before she left to return to the castle with her mother, she offered the roaring blaze one last glance. Suddenly, the most peculiar of urges fell over her like a blanket.

She almost felt as though she should walk into the fire.

It called to the egg. And the egg called to her.

Shireen shook her head, lifted her skirts slightly, and rushed to her mother’s side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the wonderful comments. I always love seeing and reading them. And thank you for taking me past 200 kudos. Woo!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this Shireen chapter. Next up is Jon, and then Team Dragonstone will be saying goodbye to everyone's favorite spooky fortress.


	16. The Last of the Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow has a bad time

_Chapter XVI: Last of the Wolves_

Jon knew that the Wall was the home of the crows. He knew that it was said dark wings oft brought dark words. And from what he had heard from Pyp and Grenn and the others, they had received little but dark words of late. But he had not expected it, not expected it in the least.

Robb was dead.

He had been slain at his uncle’s wedding at the hands of the Freys and the Boltons on the orders of Tywin Lannister.  Lady Stark, the woman he had spent his life fearing, was dead as well, and the might of the North was slaughtered. The War of the Five Kings was all but over. The boy king who had ordered Jon’s own father’s execution had won.

But what tore at Jon the most was not his brother’s death. It was the fact that it did not hurt as it should have.

Robb had been his brother, his first brother. They had fought and argued and played and loved each other. He had been Jon’s closest friend and confidant for most of his life, even with Lady Stark’s insistence that he distance himself from Jon.

Now, he was dead.

And Jon did not feel that same urge to fly away from the Wall in pursuit of revenge, as he had when the bastard king had executed his father.

He could not even say _why_ , and perhaps that tore at him most of all.

Had he become a Sworn Brother, finally? Were his vows to the sacred Brotherhood of the Night’s Watch finally so deeply ingrained in him that he would never break them?

Or perhaps it was simple self-preservation? Mance would be upon the Wall at any time, and it was the looming threat in his mind at nearly every waking moment. He could not afford to ponder Robb at a time such as this.

… was it Ygritte? Had she replaced all else in the time he had known her? Had her death left him hollow, and unable to feel the pain he should have? Was it that his last memories of her would be the murder and betrayal in her eyes as he fled Queenscrown?

Or, darkest of all… was it his jealousy? The jealousy he had always felt for Robb. That Robb would be Lord, that Robb would wield Ice, that Robb would have Winterfell and be the man the world remembered. Was a part of him glad that Robb was gone, and that now _he_ could be the son of Eddard Stark he had always yearned to be?

It couldn’t be, he wouldn’t let it. He was a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch, and his place was here on the Wall. He would live here and he would die here, and Winterfell would never be his no matter his darkest fantasies and desires.

He loved Robb.

And now he was gone.

He just wished that it hurt more.

* * *

 

Jon was eating his supper in the Common Hall when the Lord Steward called for him.

Matthar, Halder, Grenn, Pyp, Toad, and Dareon were assembled around him, all eating and drinking and jeering. It almost felt as it had in the beginning, when he was still a recruit of the Night’s Watch. Before everything had happened. Before the wights, before Ygritte, before what the men were calling the Red Wedding. If it weren’t for the specter of Mance Rayder hanging over them all, it might have been comfortable, even.

And Sam.

Sam’s absence was felt by Jon most of all. Grenn had sworn he did everything he could to rouse him, to take him away from Craster’s godsforsaken keep, but Jon could not help the edge of bitterness he felt over it. _Sam should be here,_ Jon thought, _warm and full._

“We just finished the damned stockade for those wildlings and Yarwyck and the Pomegranate’s already got us working again,” Halder griped. “Working at the top of the Wall is a damned nightmare.”

Matthar nodded his head in commiseration. “If Mance don’t kill us, I think they will.”

“I wasn’t worked half this hard at Eastwatch,” Dareon said, with a dramatic sweep of his hand, “I want to go back. Mance won’t bother us there.”

Grenn laughed. “You don’t know nothing about Mance, Dareon.”

“And neither do you,” said Jon. “He is King-Beyond-the-Wall for one reason, and one reason alone. The wildlings believe he can get them across the Wall. Once he does that, they will splinter. They will do whatever they please.” He stared at Dareon. “Harma Dogshead, or Rattleshirt, or the Weeper, any of them would be glad to kill the crows that remain. There will be no hiding, that is why he must needs be stopped.”

They all stared at him; the amicable mood thoroughly quashed. They returned to their food and their drink, and it was quiet for a time.

“I seen that Young Griff visiting the wildlings,” Halder said. “Any idea why?”

Jon had seen it too, but since their talk by the brazier, Jon had been kept busy by the Lord Steward. He bore some suspicion over it, but the comings and goings of that party were known to the officers. They were given all but free reign of the castle, though for what reason, Jon knew little.

“I do,” Pyp said after a sip of some wine, “he says he wants to learn the Old Tongue.”

That gave Jon pause. “Why?”

Pyp shrugged. “If he tells it true, he knows six tongues. Wants to add another notch to his belt I suppose!”

Six? Jon knew some small bits of High Valyrian from his education with Luwin, but beyond that, and the traces of Old Tongue he had gleaned from his time among Tormund Giantsbane’s band… He could not imagine knowing that many different ways to say something. “It’s a hard tongue. Like rocks bashing together. I know some few words.”

“Tell us then, Lord Snow.” Dareon laughed. “What did they tell you when your cloak was sheepskin?”

That earned the singer a glare, but Jon acquiesced. “…Skagos means stone, and magnar means lord.” Thinking on it, he actually knew even less than he thought.

“Is that it?” Toad asked. “That can’t be it, you were gone for months!”

Jon thought of the nights he had spent around the fires. The fights that would break out between friends and rivals alike of the Free Folk. It had led him to ask many questions to Ygritte or Tormund or Longspear Ryk. He found himself smiling. “I know the curses, actually.”

“Go on then, tell us!” Toad said.

“Aye, let us hear it,” said Dareon with a grin. “I want to yell at them wildlings in their own words.”

But as Jon made to enlighten them on the many various ways a wildling could liken a man to a cock in the ancient tongue of the First Men, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, and saw the dour grey face of Dolorous Edd.

“What is it?” Jon asked.

The middle aged squire shrugged. “The ol’ pomegranate yearns for a squeezing I hear,” said Edd.

Jon’s eyebrows furrowed. “What? Speak plain, Edd.”

“The Lord Steward humbly and formally requests your presence in his solar,” he said with a mock flourish. His expression hardly changed. “You need some help, Snow?” He gestured to the crutch Jon had laid down on the floor.

Jon frowned. “No, I’ll be fine.” Jon rose to leave.

Dolorous Edd nodded somberly. “Hmm. Well if it’s all the same to you, I’m rather famished.” He swiftly took Jon’s seat as he stepped away. Edd was no glutton, so Jon did not mind letting him have at his meal.

He’d lost his appetite anyway.

“I’ll see you all later,” Jon said, though he knew it was equally as likely that he might never see any of them again. The fact was not lost on them, and their faces were near as somber as Edd’s (who had made short work of the remains of his stew).

They offered him half hearted waves.

“Best of luck, Lord Snow,” Dareon said. There were grumbles of agreement and other well wishes.

Jon quickly left, unable to hold their gazes for long. He did not like their pity. They thought him fragile, after Robb. As he neared the exit of the common hall, he saw the tall graceful form of Young Griff entering the hall, flanked by the brawny knight he knew many called Duck. Duck had acquitted himself well during the battle, his brothers said, and was well liked, as most of their number were. Jon thought him a bit of a braggart at a glance. He had the swagger of many of the free riders Jon had seen when King Robert came to Winterfell so long ago.

As Jon hobbled closer, he saw the Young Griff shoo the knight away. _Odd,_ Jon thought. Young Griff was yet a squire, was he not?

Young Griff’s hair was positively ridiculous, in either case.  He stood out here at Castle Black as few things did, and gave Jon second thoughts as to his potential competence. What sort of man would walk around looking like that, after all? His thoughts were cut short as the Essosi squire drew up close to him and gave him an appraising look.

Jon fought the urge to say something rude.

“I have it on good authority that you’re going to keep your head,” Young Griff said with the hints of that Essosi accent he had. “Worry not, Jon Snow.” And then he was trotting off to catch up to the knight called Duck, leaving Jon more puzzled than annoyed.

Jon shook his head to clear his thoughts and made for the King’s Tower.

The King’s Tower was an arduous climb, even now with several days healing having a discernible effect on his gait. It was only his relative inability to climb that had saved him from having to climb the Wall and help in the construction of Bowen Marsh’s hoardings. The winch cage was being used to transport the required materials mostly, and he was not a skilled craftsman regardless. He had been relegated to lesser duties on the ground of Castle Black in the meantime.

He had been the Lord Commander’s personal attendant before. He had brought the Old Bear’s food and drink and mail to him, warmed his baths, attended to his requests and fought off his raven. But what was he now?

 _Just a steward_.

There was no one to learn command from now. Marsh would not have him on, and whoever would be the next Lord Commander would probably think little of the Crow-who-came-back. His duties would be many and menial and _forgotten_.

That is, if he kept his head as the Young Griff seemed certain of, and they all managed to survive Mance Rayder’s eventual assault.

He knocked on the door to the solar that had once been Mormont’s, and when he heard a muffled acceptance, entered the room. Inside, he found that there was not an informal council, as there had been before, but only the Lord Steward. He was sitting behind the broad desk Mormont had occasionally written from, and often eaten from.

“Sit, Snow.”

Jon sat as quickly as he was able on the proffered chair. He rested his crutch across his lap.

The Lord Steward rose from his seat. He was a man of particularly modest height, shorter than Jon even, and while Jon was no dwarf, he was no giant either. Seated, Jon had to look up to meet Marsh’s eyes. This was not lost on him.

“The wildlings were questioned,” Marsh said. “And the survivors from the ranging as well.” He stared at Jon hard. “Our brothers with enough luck to survive Mormont’s disaster had little ill to say of you, while the wildlings had little _but_ ill to say of you.” He laughed. “The lord of the Thenns said he always knew you were a liar, that you had always been a _crow_.”

Styr had been right, of course. Ygritte’s trust had been misplaced.

“And about the Halfhand?” Jon said grimly. “The fact remains that he died by my hand; I do not expect the Watch to forget.”

“No,” Marsh agreed, “The Watch does not forget.” A silence fell, and he saw the Lord Steward’s jaw working soundlessly. Then, “I have not served at Castle Black for all of my years, did you know that, Snow?” he said.

Jon had not known that, in truth. He shook his head.

“For many years, I was a steward at the Shadow Tower, before the old Lord Steward breathed his last.” He hummed. “I knew Qhorin, I knew him well; damn well better than most. We were not close, the Halfhand and I, but I knew the man. I had his measure. He was a hard man.” Marsh chuckled darkly. “He didn’t like to speak of it, but he hailed from the Iron Islands, though he why he came to the Wall, or was sent, I cannot say. Those barren rocks breed hard men, and Qhorin was harder again by half.”

Qhorin Halfhand an ironborn. It made a certain sense, now that he thought of it. He had never talked of gods old or new. That he would perish so far from the sea felt… sad, to Jon.

“If he knew his time was at an end, and that his death might serve some greater purpose, he would not have hesitated to end it himself. That his death would buy you the trust necessary to hide among the wildlings was only yet another boon to him, I am sure.” Marsh shook his head. “He was not the sort to flinch from duty.”

“And me?” Jon asked.

“What is obeying the order of your superior, if not duty?” Marsh asked. “Had you died at the Skirling Pass with the Halfhand, we would not have had warning of the wildling ambush. We would have had many more dead brothers.” His eyes became hard. “You may have stretched your vows more than you ought to have, but the fact remains that you might well have saved the Watch with your actions.” He circled back around his desk and took his seat. “You will face no punishment, Jon Snow. That is not how the Night’s Watch treats its brothers.”

Jon felt a weight lift from him that he had hardly noticed he was carrying. “But what if others object?”

“Others may object all they wish. I am the acting Lord Commander until the Choosing is held, and such is my decision.”

Not sure what the best response would be, he fell back on courtesies. “Thank you, Lord Marsh. You will not regret this.”

“I best not.”

“Return to your supper, Snow, and thank your friends. They were most vehement in their defense of you. Even the septa and Griff brought their persuasion to bear for your sake.” That seemed to puzzle Marsh as much as it did Jon.

“I shall, thank you.” Jon offered a quick bow, took up his crutch, and exited the room as quickly as he was able.  

As he exited the King’s Tower, Jon was consumed by thoughts of the sellsword and his party. The septa, he could see having some like of him. Perhaps she had taken kindly to his seeming piety in his handling of the wildling dead, or she had noted his attendance at the sept. But Griff? Griff had seemed to be attempting to bore a hole in his head by sight alone when he had met him at his questioning. He had had little contact with the man.

So it must have been the son, then.

Jon almost scoffed. The boy trusted too easily if it had only taken a single conversation to sway him to his side.

When he returned to the common hall, his brothers were still there, but their food was long since finished. Dareon had gone to the front of the hall, and was singing some mournful ballad. He saw Young Griff at another table with Duck and his father at his side. Once again, Jon was struck by how little the son took after the father.

But he supposed that Robb and Sansa had taken little from their father. Sansa, who was still hostage to the men who had now killed more Starks than even Greyjoy. And Robb, who he would never see again.

Jon clenched his scarred hand.

“Jon’s alive!” Pyp called excitedly when he saw him.

Halder and Matthar and Toad and the rest all crowded around him and sent up a rowdy cheer, however ridiculous the notion was that he would have already been executed. Marsh would have waited a day, at least. When Dareon caught sight of him, he abruptly ended the song he had been singing, and switched to another song he had never heard. Some foreign sounding hero and a fiery blade.

As his friends found him a seat, Jon realized that Griff’s eyes had come to his again. Sharp and blue they were, and they seemed to stare straight through him.

* * *

 

The next day, Jon was fletching arrows.

It was hard not to think of Ygritte as he worked. She had been skilled at it, her hands working tirelessly and gracefully with the feathers of birds from Beyond the Wall. She was easily the best with a bow from those among Tormund’s band, and without a doubt the best of those from the party Styr had led. Bow and spear had been her domain, and sword his.

He saw her hands in place of his own. Delicate and yet rough.

He thought of her hands roaming his body, and his roaming hers. He thought of her slightly too-far apart eyes. He thought of her laughs and her queer accent. He thought of the castles she had wished to see that she never would. He thought of the children he might have fathered with her, with dark grey eyes and hair kissed-by-fire.

He thought of the look in her eyes, as she slit that old man’s throat.

Arrow after arrow, Jon kept himself busy. The hoardings at the top of the Wall were going well, Pyp and Matthar said. They were a good idea, and if Jon was honest, he probably wouldn’t have thought of it. Anything to make the inevitable defense of the Wall an easier affair was a task worth undertaking. Mance Rayder and his army were a certainty. That they would come was only a matter of time. They would not be able to meet them in the field, each of them knew that.

Mormont had once dreamed of breaking up the wildling column in coordinated mounted strikes, but the chance for that had long since passed. Now all they could do was defend. And for that, they needed arrows.

He had told Marsh and the others of the giants and their mammoths. Doubtlessly, Mance would send them against the gate. For them, they had pitch and oil to drop, and they would surely get more than their fair share of arrows as well.

_How many will die?_

How many Ygrittes? How many Tormunds? Rattleshirts and Varamyrs and Longspear Ryks?

How many of those old men at Queenscrown would they make if they passed?

How far south would they go? Would they stop at the Gift? Or go further? What would happen to the mountain clans? Or the Umbers and Karstarks? The Mormonts out on Bear Island? The Forresters and Glovers and Cerwyns?

How much death?

_Can we even succeed?_

Jon was not certain. The wildlings outnumbered the Watch by a factor of a hundred; Luwin had taught him enough sums and history for him to know that such a number was all but insurmountable. But he had said the words. They all had. This was their duty, to defend the Wall and the realm until their last day.

That his last day seemed nearer than ever did not ease his spirit any.

Jon was jarred from his reflection by the arrival of another body and the dumping of an armful of half-done arrows and a mountain of feathers.

It was Young Griff.

“What are you doing here?” Jon asked.

The tall boy gave him a queer look. “Fletching arrows, I thought that was plain.”

“Why here then? Why not your chambers?”

They had been allowed to lodge in the King’s Tower, below Marsh’s own quarters. Rather prestigious of lodgings for a ragtag collection of sellswords and a septa, Jon thought.

Young Griff shrugged. “I could’ve,” he said, “but Pyp asked that I keep an eye on you.” He began to work before Jon could give voice to further complaints. He had a number of red feathers in his bundle, but there were grey and white and black as well.

 _You’re not my mother,_ Jon wanted to say, but he kept it to himself. He would not poison the well with someone who had some role in his continued existence.

Jon returned to his work, noting quickly that Young Griff was rather skilled in fletching as well. _A man of many talents._ As they worked, Jon’s thoughts wandered again. He thought of the family that remained to him.

Uncle Benjen, still unaccounted for in the wilds Beyond the Wall. Arya, who he had heard nothing of for many long months. And Sansa, still held by the Lannisters. Everyone else was dead. Father. Robb. Bran and Rickon.

Lannisters, Boltons, Freys, Greyjoys. All of them were cowards and murderers. He felt himself grow angry.

 _And the wolf_ , _at Queenscrown_. Was it like Orell? Did a piece of Bran live on in his wolf?

Was that it? Was that all that remained of House Stark? A girl who might not still breathe, a hostage, a bastard, a lost black brother, and a fragment in a wolf?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Young Griff was staring at him. Finally, some of his anger leaked from him, almost against his volition. “You don’t look much like your father,” he said. Almost instantly, he regretted it, and added, “Take after your mother, then?” But it was a poor salve.

 _Something_ flashed across Young Griff’s dark blue eyes, but he didn’t say anything for a time, instead, continuing his work silently.

“Would you like to know a secret, Jon Snow?” The Essosi smiled, but there was an edge to it.

“Whatever it is you tell me, I cannot guarantee I’ll keep it to myself. My loyalty is to the Watch,” Jon replied, guarded.

The taller boy shrugged. “I know how it is here. News travels quickly when there is little to speak of.” He laughed a sour laugh, but quieted quickly. “Griff is not my sire, but he is my father all the same.”

“And what of your birth father?” Jon could not help his curiosity.

“Dead when I was little more than a babe.” His eyes grew cloudy. “I had a mother and sister too, but they were murdered by _thieves_ not long after.” He breathed deeply. “Griff took me in, raised me as his own, and ensured I grew up a credit to the family I never knew.” He glanced sidelong at Jon. “And for that, he will always be my father.”

“He sounds a good man,” Jon replied. “And I thank him, for his aid with Marsh. There are those who would sooner see me hanged.” If Alliser Thorne were here, Jon knew that he’d have made the noose himself.

Young Griff nodded, and they continued to work silently for a time. “And I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, “about your brother.”

Jon didn’t know how to respond.

“What they did… it’s an ill thing, to kill a man under guest rights.” He shook his head. “The old gods and the new agree on these matters; justice will find its way to them, one way or another.”

Jon hoped so, but… he was a Sworn Brother now. The Night’s Watch took no part. He should try to put this all from his mind… but that felt wrong.

“When Joffrey killed my father, I almost forswore my vows,” he found himself saying. “In the dead of night I fled Castle Black. I would join Robb’s ranks, I told myself, and I would avenge my father.” Jon laughed drily. “I was a fool. I would have forced my own brother to take off my head, if I had deserted. Pyp and Grenn and the others,” _and Sam_ , “they stopped me, and they brought me back. I kept my vows.” He clenched his hand. “And now I find myself thinking that if I had gone, if I had slipped away and gone to his side, perhaps I could have stopped it, could have prevented it from ever coming to pass.”

“Or perhaps you would have died there with him,” Young Griff said.

“Yes, perhaps I would have.” He paused, searching for the right words. “But I could have died proudly. Robb was a good man, and a good king. It should be any man’s hope to die for such a king, if he must die at all.” He remembered that day in the training yard. “And Joffrey… Joffrey is a spiteful and cruel bastard,” he spat the words, all but feeling the venom on his lips. “I would put Longclaw through him myself if I had half a chance.”

Young Griff laughed at his words.

Jon rounded on him. “Do you think I jest?”

The Essosi threw up his hands, dropping the arrow he’d been working on. “No, no,” he said placatingly. “It’s just… strange to here one of you black brothers talk with such fervor over the matter of kings. I’ve been at the Wall for some time now, and kings are rarely on any man’s lips it seems.”

Jon laughed too then, despite himself. “It’s a necessity, I suppose. Men from all across the Seven Kingdoms come to the Watch. We would rather not hate our brothers for their support of this king or that.” He had seen it though, the despair, the shock, the _horror_ , in men’s faces when the news of the so-called Red Wedding came to them. The Northmen in the Watch felt the loss of King Robb keenly. “It’s over now, in any case. Only Joffrey remains, and the Iron Islands will surely be brought back into the fold by Tywin Lannister sooner rather than later. There cannot be arguments over kings that no longer vie for the throne.”

And life would go on at the Wall, as it always had, assuming they survived Mance.

Young Griff only smiled enigmatically at that. For some reason, it made him recall what Dareon had said.

“Have you managed to get a wildling to teach you?” Jon asked.

The blue-haired Essosi stared at him blankly for a second, confused at the change in topic. “I–Yes, I have.”

“Is it Big Boil?”

Young Griff quirked his eyebrows. “How’d you know that?”

Jon shrugged. “He was always talkative. Complained about the boil on his arse near every chance he had. Small wonder he’d relish the chance to tell someone new.” Jon picked up a new arrow. “Are you learning it well enough?”

Shaking his head sadly, Young Griff answered, “This Old Tongue is no trifle; it reminds me of Ghiscari in a way. It’s hard and harsh. The Bastard Valyrian dialects come off the tongue smoothly.” He shook his head again. “But I will master it with time.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why learn the Old Tongue? Not even the mountain clans of the North speak it still. The Bastard Valyrian languages of the free cities have some use, but the Old Tongue is spoken only by wildlings.”

Young Griff stopped his fletching completely then, and turned fully to face Jon. His dark blue (almost purple, Jon noted) eyes studied his face. “Tell me Jon Snow, what would you do about Mance and his wildlings?”

“What I would do matters little,” Jon replied. “I am but a steward, and I will prevent the wildlings from getting through the Wall.”

“You know them better than any man here, Snow. Is every one of their number reprehensible?”

Jon paused. “No… There are good men among them, and there are bad men as well.” Jon thought of Ygritte slashing the old man’s throat, and the stealing of women, and the bastards, and– “but the way they live, it’s–”

“And the wights. You fought one, did you not?”

Jon was momentarily confused by his change in tack, “Yes, I slew a wight, and burned my hand for it.”

“Then would you rather there be another fifty thousand walking corpses, or fifty thousand men, women, and children on this side of the Wall?”

Jon gaped. “What?”

“Let them through. Work out a deal, ensure cooperation, and let them through,” Young Griff said, as if it were the simplest matter in the world.

“I–” Jon had pondered it, truly. But to hear another say it, and with such certainty, was, off-putting.

“In the east, in Essos,” Young Griff continued, “the Dothraki are a constant menace. They are savage and dangerous, and take anyone they do not kill as slaves to sell to the masters in Slavers’ Bay. In Pentos and Tyrosh and Qohor and the other Free Cities, the magisters host lavish banquets, and offer gifts and tribute to the khals. In return, the khals do not attack the Free Cities.” He shrugged. “I do not see why some accord could not be reached with Mance Rayder.”

“Mance… Mance is a good man.” And An oathbreaker, but… somehow despite that, still a good man. “The wildlings are unruly; they are a mess of loyalties and tribal rivalries. And the _giants_.” They would be a nightmare to untangle, and with the North as it was… “I would agree, were Robb still king. He would have seen the merit in this course.”

Young Griff nodded. “I’ve given it considerable thought, Snow. I’m glad that my assumptions were not incorrect.” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “The Watch, though, and the northern lords… They would not agree so readily, I believe.”

“Or King Joffrey besides,” Jon added. The name left a foul taste in his mouth.

A frown marred Young Griff’s face, but it quickly became something more enigmatic. “Still, it’s important to consider these things. You can never know when a new opportunity might present itself.” He grabbed the arrow he’d been working on last. “In the meantime, we prepare for the fight that is coming, be it the wildlings or the dead.”

They worked silently on their arrows for a time.

The fact that this Essosi boy could see the real threat so clearly, when not even the high officers of the Night’s Watch could was both saddening and shocking.

_Were I Lord Commander I could make it so. I could let them into the Gift._

But Jon was just a steward, and he had his oaths to see to. Bowen Marsh would not let them through, and Denys Mallister at the Shadow Tower and Cotter Pyke at Eastwatch would surely agree to that same course. They would fight. Many wildlings would die, and perhaps the Night’s Watch would be no more by the end of it. And for what?

“Griff?”

The blue haired boy turned to him.

“I already said so before. Just ‘Jon’ is enough.”

Young Griff smiled, nodded, and returned to his work.

They would need a lot of arrows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that canonically, we don't really get Jon's reaction to the news of Robb's death. And when we finally do get his first reflection on it, it's remarkably muted. So I hope I did it justice. Jon is a complicated dude.
> 
> Next chapter, Team Stannis gets its butt off Dragonstone!


	17. Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Stannis gets a move on; Aegon gets his night ruined

_ Chapter XVII: Departure _

**_Shireen_ **

Overnight, Dragonstone had become a mess of activity. From atop the Sea Dragon Tower, Shireen could see that Salladhor Saan’s ships had been recalled, and were now laying anchor all throughout the port of Dragonstone. Men were marching through the halls, servants were carrying chests, weapons and foodstuffs were being gathered. It was madness. Shireen had not seen the castle in such a state since before the Blackwater.

When she had arrived at the Sea Dragon Tower for her daily lessons, she found that she was alone with Maester Pylos, when most every time she had Devan and Edric there as well.

“Where are Edric and Devan?” She asked.

Pylos was hurriedly gathering letters together and arranging them into stacks and categories. Usually, her lessons for a given day were prepared, and Pylos was very much calm and ready to teach. Today, his hair was messy and his maester’s chain jingled furiously as he moved. “Devan is attending to the king, princess.”

“And Edric?”

He set down a stack of letters and turned to face her fully. “Edric is gone.”

She started. “Gone? What does that mean?”

Pylos’s mouth became an uncharacteristically grim line. “He is no longer on Dragonstone.”

“How?” She said, bewildered. She had seen him only yesterday! “Why?”

The maester returned to his papers. “…The Lord Hand caught wind of terrible tidings, princess. He had to be sent away, for his own safety.” He gave her a hard look. “He is making for the Free Cities even now.”

Falling into a chair in a heap, Shireen frowned. “And what’s happening outside? Why are there men everywhere?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Her Grace did not inform you?”

She shook her head. “Mother was busy, and Dalla was gone. I had to dress myself this morning.”

“It’s a good skill to nurture, princess. I dress myself every day as well.” He smiled. “But to answer your question, you are leaving Dragonstone.”

“Leaving?” She asked breathlessly, “Leaving where? Where are we going?”

Pylos’s smile became sad. “Not we… just you, princess. His Grace is marshalling the men to go north, to the Wall. You and your mother will go as well.”

The Wall? But, why? She had heard nothing of the Wall beyond what Cressen and Pylos had taught her. Her father had not made mention of it even once, focused as he was on King’s Landing and the Lannisters. And mother certainly hadn’t breathed a word of the Wall in her presence. “And you?” she asked.

“I must stay,” Pylos replied. He raised his hands and gestured to the books and letters strewn all about.  “A maester’s duty is to the keep to which he is assigned. I am the maester of Dragonstone.” He grabbed the chain about his neck and shook it lightly. “I swore an oath when I forged this chain, so as much as I might like to travel to the Wall with the king, I must stay.”

The tears that sprang to her eyes in that moment shocked even her, and she looked down quickly to hide them. She heard Pylos return to his papers, and silently thanked him for not calling attention to her emotion.

She had lost Cressen first, and now she would lose Pylos as well. She sniffed. She rubbed at her eyes quickly with her sleeve, and mastered herself as swiftly as she could. “Who will teach me, then?” she finally managed.

“Her Grace, I would think,” Pylos said after some rumination. “There are maesters at the Wall as well, but I am sure they are kept quite busy with their many duties.”

She was not like Edric. She had always enjoyed her lessons; she performed well in them, and no one could fault her that. “Why is my father going to the Wall so suddenly?”

“The Night’s Watch calls for aid, and His Grace means to answer them. They will need every able hand and skilled sword, princess.” He placed a few more stacks of paper on the desk. “As to why you and your mother must go as well, rather than stay… Well, it is likely that once His Grace leaves Dragonstone, it will fall. He will leave behind a scant number of men, but it will not be enough to hold it against the Redwyne fleet. He would not have you remain only to be captured and used against him. You are his heir.”

Shireen smiled at that.

“I will miss you, Pylos.”

He paused, and smiled back. “And I you, Shireen. …Do not tell Devan, but you have always been my favorite student.” He laughed and she joined him, but then a strange look crossed his gaze and his laughter stopped abruptly. “…When His Grace… has his kingdom, you will be the Princess of Dragonstone. I shall see you again.” He picked up a thinner tome and waved it at her. “Now, I think your time might best be used gathering up whatever it is you would like to take with you. If the castle is indeed taken, you cannot expect much to be left for your return.”

She nodded her assent and got up from her seat.

He turned away, and she made her way around the desk. “I have much to compile for His Grace in the meantime, there are many records he might need while he is away. Maps and–” he stopped suddenly when she hugged him.

She did not know if she would ever come back to Dragonstone. She did not know that if she did come back, that he would even still be here. She had not known him so long as Cressen, but she often thought of how she wished she might have said goodbye to the man who had taught her so much. She would not squander that opportunity with Pylos. She heard the jingle of his chain as he wrapped his arms lightly around her.

“Run along, Princess,” he said warmly.

Shireen was nothing if not obedient (usually), and so she did just that. She had much to gather, in any case.

* * *

 

The first thing Shireen did, was remove her prized chest from under her bed. It already had all of her most precious keepsakes, so it was naturally the most important thing for her to retrieve. The second thing she did was immediately remove the egg from the chest and hide it on her person. She was glad this one was as small as it was, or it would not have been so easy to conceal among her dress’s folds.

Few, if any, went under her bed on the average day, but once she was on a ship, she supposed it was more likely that someone might rifle through the chests. She didn’t want to lose  _ any  _ of her keepsakes, naturally, but this one was the most important.

Edric had said she would hatch it, and so she would. The next time she saw him, she would have a dragon.

Her dresses were another matter. Dalla usually helped her with everything that concerned her clothing, and if she was honest, she didn’t even know the full extent of the dresses she owned. It was cold in the North, and especially cold at the Wall, so surely she’d want to bring her warmest clothing.

_ Do I even own warm dresses? _

Shireen had spent most of her life on Dragonstone, and Dragonstone was almost never cold. There might be a slight chill to the air at times, but it was usually refreshing. She had visited King’s Landing and Storm’s End a few times as well, and their climates were not too much different. King’s Landing was warmer if anything, and though rain was more frequent as Storm’s End, it was rarely what she would consider chilly.

She settled for retrieving all of her favorite gowns and dresses, particularly those that had pockets, so as to make carrying the egg with her at all times easier. Of those, she packed her most favorite first, and then layered her lesser favored clothing above them.

As she worked, she came upon a dress that she had not worn in some time. From before her father had been crowned, in fact. It was a pretty and frilly thing, something her father had not been enthused by, but that he knew was necessary. She had worn it during one of her rare visits to the capital.

It was gold and black, proper Baratheon colors; father had not yet changed his sigil, with its more garish yellow. Myrcella had thought it a beautiful dress, and Tommen had even stammered out a compliment. They were often clothed in the red and gold of house Lannister over the Baratheon colors, and at the time it had puzzled her, that they would so ignore the royal house in favor of their mother’s. After everything had come to light, it made some sense that the queen had always spurned her husband’s house.

But even despite that, Shireen knew she still loved Myrcella and Tommen. They were good, no matter the ills their parents had done.

But Joffrey?

_ I am glad he is dead,  _ she thought with a venom that surprised even her.

Joffrey had been a torment. She had despaired to ever end up in a room alone with her so-called cousin, and it was typically only the man he called “dog” that prevented him from doing worse than spitting cruel words at her. Tommen and Myrcella had told her of worse things he had done. Things that the queen had kept quiet.

And then he had been an even worse king than he had been a prince. Mother had told her of the riots that occurred in King’s Landing, and his murder of Lord Stark.

It was a small wonder that he had grown to be a terrible king. She could still remember father complaining of Joffrey’s lack of care in his studies when he would return occasionally from his duties as Master of Ships. He had little  _ but _ complaints about the affairs of King’s Landing and the royal family on those rare dinners they would share.

_ I enjoy my studies _ , she thought,  _ and I like to hear of history too. _

But would she be a good queen, if it came to it?

A thought struck her then, and she resolved to finish her packing. Father would doubtlessly be busy, but she needed to speak with him, soon or late.

* * *

 

**_Stannis_ **

Preparations had gone well.

Salladhor Saan’s fleet had assembled with remarkable swiftness, especially taking into account the lax command style of the Lyseni pirate turned “Lord of the Narrow Sea”. Perhaps even pirates and sellsails tired of capturing and “taxing” merchant vessels.

_ More likely, they yearn for the payment I promised them,  _ Stannis thought, grinding his teeth.

The rest of his men had taken to the orders quickly and obediently, even the Florent men, despite Alester’s imprisonment. There was some grumbling, as there always was, amongst what few so-called lords remained to him, but the rank and file were eager to go north it seemed. Waiting on Dragonstone had frayed their nerves, as it had his own.

They would be leaving Dragonstone shortly after dawn, and on the eve of the departure Stannis found himself in the Chamber of the Painted Table. He had spent all too many weeks here, staring at the great table carved into the shape of Westeros. Before everything, before the Blackwater, there had been some measure of expectation in his brooding. Melisandre had guaranteed him his throne, and so it was only to be a matter of time. After the Blackwater… his gaze had been pulled by the fires more than ever before.

He would still find himself tracing the grooves and shapes carved and painted into Aegon’s table, lamenting where things had gone wrong, agonizing over how he might have changed it all. But just as often he would find his solace in the fires.

Davos’s return had revitalized him, he saw that plainly. He had no use for sycophants, and that nearly all that remained to him after the Blackwater. Davos changed it all.

That he had lived had been nothing short of a miracle. That he had been found by one of Salladhor Saan’s men and not one of the bastard king’s was a greater miracle still.

And then he had seen fit to throw away such divine providence in a foolish attempt at murdering Melisandre, as if she had somehow been the reason for the disaster at the Blackwater. Melisandre had argued in his favor even, as his head cooled in that cell. And then, he had proven that his wits remained in him with his rejection of Ser Axell’s plan. Stannis had rewarded him for his counsel, and raised him yet higher.

But then he had become a thorn in his side yet again. The boy–the thrice damned boy. Shireen’s friend in play and companion in studies. The spawn of Robert. The desecration of the marriage he had never wanted.

The deaths of Robb Stark and Joffrey Waters had come in such quick succession that it shocked him, and with them, the boy had become the center of it all.

One boy for a kingdom.

A night that never ends. A cold that kills the world.

And all of it might be prevented but for the life of a single bastard boy.

He had been ready to kill Davos in that moment, but he hadn’t. Davos reminded him of what he should be. Who he should be.

_ A king protects his people, or he is no king at all. _ That is what Davos had said to him when Stannis had drawn Lightbringer, fully prepared to behead his Hand. And he had been right. He was the king of the Seven Kingdoms. The true and rightful king. And he was more than that too.

_ Azor Ahai reborn. Rh’llor’s chosen. The warrior of light.  _ Melisandre had named him each of those titles. And yet…  _ What hero would sacrifice his own blood? _

Melisandre had seen in the fires that she needed the boy. Edric Storm. That he was vital to the fate of the world. That through his death the stone dragons would awake, and he could forestall the end of all things.

That the boy was vital to the fate of the world had been true, after a fashion. Had Davos not spirited the boy away, Stannis might not have found his gaze turning north. To the true enemy. To the demons of cold and ice and snow. A king protects his people.

His eyes scanned the Painted Table from Dragonstone all the way to the Wall. It was no small distance, but he had sailed similar before. In Balon Greyjoy’s  _ first _ ill-fated rebellion, Stannis had sailed the royal fleet from Dragonstone around Dorne and the Reach and to the waters off Fair Isle when he smashed Victarion Greyjoy’s fleet, and then further still to the Isles themselves when he had taken Great Wyk.

_ But my fleet is smaller now. _

That thought stung some.  Most of all because he could scarce call it  _ his _ fleet and he knew it; it was Salladhor Saan’s fleet. He trusted the slight Lyseni only as far as he could physically throw him, however much Davos believed him to be true to his word. Stannis had promised him gold, and had given him little more than an empty title and the legal means to continue his piracy. The pirate would turn if something was not done to fill his coffers.

His hand went to the hilt of Lightbringer almost of its own accord. He fingered the plain hilt of the so-called legendary sword and ground his teeth.

The kingdom was in shambles and the world was at risk. His men were too few, his ships too undependable, his destination too far, and his enemies too numerous. Worse odds there had rarely been throughout history, and yet… he knew this was what he must do. It was his duty. To the kingdom that was his and to the people he was sworn to protect.

However much Robert might have been a better champion, Robert was dead, and R’hllor had chosen him. He would beat back the night, or die in the attempt.

A sharp knocking jogged him from his thoughts.

“Your Grace!” called Devan from beyond the door. “The Lady Melisandre begs entrance!”

Once, his young squire would have stumbled over his words when introducing the red priestess, but he had mastered his tone somewhat in recent times.

“Send her in, Devan,” he answered.

The great oaken doors of the dragon kings were laboriously pushed open by his still somewhat diminutive squire, and Lady Melisandre strode into the dim chamber. Devan was quick to shut the doors, knowing that Stannis preferred his privacy.

Melisandre greeted him with a deep bow, as she nearly always did, but her red gaze was laced with something close to wariness. “Your Grace,” she said, looking about the room. “Why did you not light a fire?”

Only one small brazier was lit, on the far side of the room. Stannis had not intended to tarry long in the Chamber, and so saw little reason to bring more light into the room. He knew the room well enough to walk it in the dark, and he knew the Painted Table as if it were the back of his hand. “I did not need it,” he said.

She pursed her full lips, painted red even now with their voyage so close upon them. The ruby choker at her throat somehow twinkling in the dim light of the Chamber. “Your Grace, you know why I am here,” she said after a considerable pause.

“I do, my lady,” he replied. “To serve me, as ever.”

Melisandre laughed lightly, her low, melodious voice stirring something in him despite himself. The laughter fled from her lips quickly, however, and she became solemn. “That is true, but there is more.”

He felt the leather of Lightbringer’s hilt. It was a good sword, as good as any Donal Noye had ever made him,, and that was no small compliment in Stannis’s eye. But it was the sword of a hero, a chosen man destined for greatness, or so Melisandre said. And this… this was…

“Must this be done, my lady?” He asked, his hand gripping Lightbringer tightly.

The red priestess reached out a long and graceful hand, and clasped his shoulder lightly. “It must, Your Grace, else we may not reach the Wall in time. You saw the torches in the snow, as well as I. You know the danger. You know what it is we fight.”

He did. It was the first vision he had seen in the flames. It had been with her aid, and it had been in the aftermath of the Blackwater. He had seen the men in black and their circle of torches. He had seen the cold and the snow.

And later, alone, he had seen himself aflame. And a dragon.

“You can work the winds with your magics? You are certain of this?”

Melisandre withdrew her hand from his shoulder. “Whatever I do, I do by the grace of R’hllor, Your Grace; the magics are not my own.” She turned and glanced to the brazier at the far end of the room. “The Florents are an old bloodline. They are proud to claim that the green blood of the Gardener kings flows in their veins. He will be suitable enough.”

Stannis ground his teeth, and he felt a pit form in his chest.

Alester Florent was never his first choice to act as his Hand. Had never been. But in the wake of Renly’s… death, he knew that the highlords must be placated if they were to be firm in their support of his rightful claim. So he had chosen the head of his own wife’s house, even afer the man had been fervent in his support of a usurper. It had been as ash in his mouth, and he had hated it.

There were many better men he might have made Hand. Men who had been true and loyal from the start. Massey with his smiles and japes, Rolland Storm, who was competent regardless of his bastardy, his cousin Andrew, even Alester’s own brother Axell was a more loyal man. And of course, there was Davos, who had never ceased to tell him the truth at great risk to himself.

But still, he had made Alester his Hand. The highest of his lords, no matter that they had supported a usurper against their rightful king. Alester had led his many men to their deaths and captures at the Blackwater. The great bulk of the men that remained to him were Alester’s men still.

And yet, he would have made Shireen a hostage, forced to marry an abomination. He would have made Stannis a beggar. He would have had them all bend the knee to a false king in exchange for land and titles that were already theirs. It made him want to vomit even now.

“Your Grace, his men will not turn against you. Queen Selyse and Ser Axell have considerable pull among them, and many under the fox banner have come to the one true God besides. He is a traitor to both his king and Rh’llor.”

Stannis laughed drily. “If the men were to rebel, they would have done it when I had him thrown into the cells. And all men know the price of treason.”

If he would have burned Edric Storm, his own blood, his daughter’s friend, and his brother’s son… Then Alester would burn. Men had had worse deaths for lesser crimes. And if Lord Alester’s death could benefit the kingdom, it was a sin Stannis was willing to bear. Such was the lot of kings.

“He will burn, then. At dawn, before we depart.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She drew closer. “Have your dreams been troubled?” she asked, in a quieter tone.

Stannis couldn’t help the laugh that he spat. “When are they not?” Ever since Renly, he had been plagued by nightmares. In those dreams, he was always the one to plant the knife in his younger brother’s throat. Or his stomach. Or his eye socket. It varied with the nights. Later, he dreamt of the Blackwater, of the death and the fire. His dreams roared, fiery and green. And now he dreamt of the night, cold and dark and ever-lasting. “It is no matter,” he said, bending over the painted table, his hands gripping its edge. “It is not dreams that define a king, but actions. I will not allow these nightmares to sway my course.”

He felt her hand cover his, delicate and warm; it gripped tightly.

“There is no shame in nightmares, Your Grace,” she replied. “I have my own, just as well.”

He nodded, but said nothing. His eyes wandered the Painted Table, and for a time, he heard little but her breathing and his own. Then, he heard a commotion outside the door, and he felt her hand leave his own. She stepped away, and he stood straight.

Stannis heard the high tones of Devan’s voice, and the somehow higher tones of a voice he could not place. And then, without so much as a call from his squire, the door was opening.

“Princess!” Devan said with a childish whine. “I’m supposed to– ugh.”

Shireen entered the Chamber in a breathless rush, even as Devan stared daggers at her and shut the door promptly.

“Shireen?” Stannis asked, “Is aught amiss?”

“Father!” she greeted with a hasty bow, and a small, crooked smile, “and Lady Melisandre.” Her greyscale scars made most expressions uneasy things on her face. They had never been easy on his either, even without such scars.

Melisandre offered a bow to her as well, but Stannis was already tired of the pleasantries. “Shireen?” he asked again.

Suddenly, she was taciturn, her nature returning to its default state. She was looking to the ground, to the table, at anything but him. Then, she took a great deep breath, and found her voice. “Father, are mother and I to be aboard  _ The Valyrian  _ with you?” She asked tremulously.

It was a question he’d not thought to hear from her mother’s lips, let alone hers. It shocked him still for a moment, but his mind quickly reasserted itself. “Of course not,” he replied matter-of-factly.

Her face fell, and she clutched at the sides of her dress. Her blue eyes, so like his own, stared down to the ground again. “Why?”

His answer was immediate, this time. “Salladhor Saan is a rogue in a lord’s trappings. I would not have you aboard the same ship as that man if I can help it.” The time spent sailing to Eastwatch would be used in planning their strategy moving forward, as well, and Selyse would be of little help; the damned fool Shireen would wish to bring with her would be even less.

And besides, one of their own few remaining ship crewed by loyal Westerosi men would be carrying the Shireen, Selyse, and her so-called court. Surely, they would be more comfortable there than on the flamboyant pirate admiral’s pleasure barge.

“But…” she said, her voice all but shaking.

“But what?” Stannis attempted to keep the edge from his voice that he knew he would have were it anyone other than Shireen. It was not a great success.

His daughter managed to raise her gaze again, and looked to Melisandre for the briefest instant. “…I’m your heir, aren’t I?”. Then, before he could respond, and with greater strength, she said, “I don’t want to be like Joffrey, I want to be a  _ good _ queen, like Alysanne.” She looked him in the eye then, and with more ferocity than he had ever seen in her. “How can I be a good queen if you always leave me and mother behind? We should be with you.”

Stannis’s immediate instinct was to remark that war was not a woman’s domain, that there would be precious little time to discuss lessons in royal duty, but he knew both of those defenses to be false. Melisandre would be aboard  _ The Valyrian _ with him, as she had been all throughout his maneuvers in the Stormlands and the Reach, and sailing was by and large a dull affair; there would be altogether too much time for such lessons.

His daughter would never be Joffrey, that had been certain from near the instant she left her mother’s womb. She was sweet from the start, and cautious from the time she could crawl. But she could be an Aenys. And he did not want to know what her Maegor would be like.

It was Melisandre who responded. “Your Grace, Shireen has the right of it in my eye. If she is to rule, she ought to learn from the man best suited to it.” She hummed. “Selyse is a good queen, but Shireen will rule in her own right.”

Shireen seized on that, letting go of her dress, and brightening considerably. “And there’s no place safer than with you father, you’re Azor Ahai!” Her smile was broad and innocent, as only a child’s could be. Melisandre exchanged a bemused look with him.

He frowned. 

But relented.

“Very well, Shireen. You may come. Inform your mother of the change in plans.”

Contrary to his orders, she instead rushed forward and embraced him. “Thank you thank you thank you!”

He froze instinctually, and looked to Melisandre for assistance. Melisandre smirked, and offered him a pointed stare. He ground his teeth.

Unsteadily, he wrapped his right arm around her, his fingers practically shaking for the effort of it. He patted her, and then pulled her away as gently as he could. “A queen ought not thank another so profusely,” he said.

She smiled up at him, and he felt the hints of a smile tug at his own lips as well.

“Go, Shireen, tell your mother.” Something between a cough and a laugh escaped him. “Better that she hear it from you.”

Shireen nodded, and with one last “Thank you father!” she had run off. Devan dutifully shut the door when she exited, and he heard a light commotion once she was safely outside the Chamber.

Melisandre did not close the gap again. “It is good that she has taken an interest in ruling, Your Grace.”

“It is,” he replied. And it was true. She had always been a good student, both Cressen and Pylos agreed, but she had never sought him out in that manner before. Truthfully, she had not sought him out much at all, kept up as she was by her painted fool and her studies. His long years as Master of Ships had kept him in the capital most times, and the rare occasions when he even had the opportunity to interact with his daughter typically meant that he had other, more important matters to see to, such as the upkeep of Dragonstone or his… attempts at a son. “She will have seen eleven years soon,” he said.

The red priestess nodded. “Her flowering may be upon her sooner than one may think.”

And marriage… he had scarcely thought of that, besides with regard to Alester Florent’s betrayal. His teeth ground harder. Whoever she married would attempt to use her, to rule through her. He would not allow such a thing to come to pass. She was his daughter, and he would not let her become some delicate flower trampled on by the power hungry men in her life.

“Your Grace?”

“It’s nothing,” he grunted.

Before he left the Chamber, he paid one last look to the Painted Table. He found his gaze drawn to Dragonstone, the smoky island and drafty castle he had never wanted. But, he pondered, it had been his, as few things in his life had truly ever been. 

_ When next I return, it will be Shireen’s. _

* * *

 

**_Selyse_ **

Selyse stared into the tall looking glass that decorated the far wall of her personal chambers. She hated it, truly. Few things mustered her ire the way staring at herself could. Often, she would find her eyes drawn to the metal border of the glass instead, of the intricate carvings of dragons and runes she did not know. It had been Rhaella’s, she was told, and had perhaps been passed down from Targaryen queens for hundreds of years. Or perhaps not.

But without fail, she would find her gaze drawn inward, away from the edges of the glass, and to that which she hated most.

She frowned.

In her right hand, she held the instrument of her eternal torture: the small metal pinchers that allowed her to pluck the hairs that grew on her lip no matter how often she removed them. They had been a gift from her father, some years before he took the fall that killed him. She had been young then, but already it had been clear that she would never be a great beauty, or even as comely as some of her cousins. Not even yet flowered, the hair that made her the subject of every jape in the land had already made itself known.

Every day, she plucked.

And even after so many years of it, she felt her eyes water from the pain of the pulling.

_ Pluck pluck pinch. Pinch pluck pluck. _

She hated it. And she hated herself for it, most of all.

Selyse wiped away a tear, then clenched her teeth and plucked again.

_ Is it the plucking today? Or is it Alester? _

Her upper lip smarted with each pull, with each hair uprooted.

It had been Alester who garnered for her this match, all those years ago. Still, she did not know how he had done it. The Florents were a prominent house in the Reach, and had intermarried with the Gardeners in the days before the Conquest. Melessa and Rhea had both married high in the Reach, and had brought great honor to their house for each of the matches. But for Selyse to have married the brother of the new king? It was beyond unlikely, with her sharp nose, overlarge ears, and hairy upper lip or without them.

But somehow, Alester had done it.

He had married his ungainly niece near as high as he could; the only man higher would have been Robert himself, had he not already been married to the Lannister adulteress. Stannis had not been a handsome man, even then, but he had been tall and strong and accomplished. She had looked forward to the day they would wed, to the union she never could have dreamed of… before  _ Delena _ .

And now, by the cruel and random happenstances of fate, she was queen.

While Alester was to burn.

When Axell had brought Alester’s treachery to light, she had been shocked and appalled. Never in a thousand lifetimes, would she have acquiesced to kneeling to the Lannister thieves and abominations, and not once in a thousand lifetimes more would she allow her Shireen to marry one of them. Never. Axell had thrown him into the dark cells beneath Dragonstone, and she had applauded.

_ Pluck pluck pinch. _

Renly had been a traitor and a usurper, and he had deserved death for his actions. Those who had supported him and turned to Stannis after his death had earned their clemency with blood. But for Alester to have turned back to the Tyrells and their Lannister allies!

It brought a fire to her chest to even think of it.

It was treason, and he was a traitor twice over, no matter that his men had fought and died at the Blackwater for the rightful cause.

Yet, when Melisandre had come to her, telling her of Stannis’s plan to go north and save the kingdom from the clutches of the Great Other, and begged for Alester’s burning, she had hesitated.

Guncer Sunglass had been seditious, and actively worked to deteriorate Stannis’s cause from within. He had called them all traitors and heathens and worse. He had  _ fought _ when they burned the Seven false gods. He had deserved his fate, and that it might have brought luck to her king during his great battle was only a windfall.

Everything she was, she owed to Lord Alester Florent. She was not so vain as to not see that fact for what it was. He had made the deals, he had played the lordly games that had won her her marriage. She was queen only through his workings.

_ “You know the power in king’s blood as well as I, Your Grace,”  _ Melisandre had said.  _ “The Florents are an old line, with many a royal match.” _

_ “I know my history”,  _ she had responded, with more venom than she had intended.  _ “R’hllor will answer, you are certain?” _

_ “I am, Your Grace.” _

It had been a long moment before she had found her strength, found the will to come to a decision, to allow what must be done to  _ be _ done. It had been hard, the hardest thing she had ever done. Harder still than forsaking the idols of her forefathers.

_ “Then do it, Melisandre.” _

He had abandoned everything. He had been made his king’s right hand and he had forsaken him. He had thrown his own niece and queen to the side like so much refuse. He had offered up Shireen to vouchsafe the return of his oh-so-precious lands. He had foresworn the Lord of Light, who guided them all through this terrible dark.

If his death could in any way aid the true king and the one God, then it was a worthy price to pay.

And yet, as close as it now was, she felt a tightness in her chest, and a lump in her throat. Every hair she plucked was as a slap to her face. Every second that passed was another step closer to the death of a man who had cared for her in the aftermath of her father’s untimely passing.

_ Remember Imry _ , she repeated to herself.  _ Remember what he gave. _

Her own brother had died for Stannis, died for his rightful king. While Alester had complained of his stolen armor and made pacts with the enemy.

_ Alester does not deserve your pity _ , she told herself.  _ He would have sold us all if meant he could return to Brightwater. _

But still, it hurt. Edric had been nothing to her. He had been a reminder of her own cousin and bedmaid’s betrayal, of the insults she and Stannis faced from the very outset of their joining. He had been an obstacle to Shireen’s own claim, and a curse upon her loins. Selyse could have seen him burn, and not a tear would have been shed.

_ That is what makes it a sacrifice, then. The pain. _

She quirked her lip after she pulled the last hair, and drew close to the glass for a second inspection. Deeming herself clean and womanly, she pulled away. She wore her favored gown already, lacking only the soft ermine mantle she preferred when there was a chill in the air. Truthfully, this brown and gold was not her favorite. After her discovery of the true God, she had commissioned several gowns with accents of red and crimson, but she had worn them only on some scant few occasions. After it was made known that Cersei Lannister was as vile as she was beautiful, she swore she would not wear R’hllor’s colors until the Lannisters were removed from the throne.

Selyse retrieved her mantle from where it rested atop her bed, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her gaze roamed her room one last time as she prepared to leave. It was remarkably empty, now that everything had been sent to the ships. Any jewels or objects of true value had been stored aboard the pirate’s fleet, so as to either  pay them, or at the very least prevent the Lannisters from claiming them when Dragonstone finally fell.

_ It will return to us, in the end _ .

She knew that, deep down. Everything they had lost would return to them. They were R’hllor’s champions, his chosen king and queen. The Stormlands, Dragonstone, Brightwater, all of it and more would fall under the fiery heart at the end of things. It must.

Selyse allowed the fires to continue burning as she left her room, as a token to the one true God. She would see them lit again, in time.

Her Hand waited outside the door, her crown held delicately in his thick hands. “Your Grace,” he greeted, bowing his head slightly.

“Ser Axell,” she said in response. Naming him her Hand had not been a decision she had taken lightly. Stannis was shut up in the Chamber of the Painted Table after the Blackwater, Imry was dead, and Alester had betrayed them. Melisandre was a great assistance, of course, but she did not know the castle and the workings of Stannis’s vassal lords as Axell did. It was the only sensible choice.

He offered her the golden crown gingerly, and she took it in hand and placed it upon her head with all of the grace her station demanded. She had been the one to order the crown made; it felt like it had been years, now. When the nature of Cersei’s betrayals had been made known to her, she had sent for a talented goldsmith straight away, and had ordered Stannis’s crown in addition to her own. His was larger, and the points of flame rose higher, than those on hers, but his bore only a solitary ruby at its front, while hers bore smaller jewels all across its length. She knew he did not favor flamboyant shows of extravagance.

When they returned, she would have one made for Shireen as well.

“Your Grace?” he asked. His broad face twisted, “Is it Alester? He deserves this, y–”

She cut him off. “Enough, Axell, I am aware.” Her thoughts were simply flighty, of late. Selyse shook her head, holding her crown so that it would not fall. “Come, the Lord does not abide by sloth,” she said, as they began the long trek to the shipyards.

* * *

 

Selyse was among the first, as she always was. The ladies that were to make the voyage north arrived in short order, as did the highest of her loyalists. Ser Godry Farring, Ser Patrek of King’s Mountain, Ser Justin Massey… Ser Richard Horpe was noticeably absent. Most of the men-at-arms were already aboard the ships, or else there would have been hundreds more present at the beach.

It was the same beach they had burned the old sept’s Seven, though the charred remains of those statutes were long ago removed. A tall wooden post had been erected where once Stannis had pulled the Red Sword of Heroes from the false god’s chest. Kindling and dried grasses were strewn all about the post.

Shireen arrived alongside Dalla, mercifully without the fool in tow. She was wearing a gown of black and gold, Selyse noted, and she felt pride stir up in her chest over her daughter once again. That she had found R’hllor at long last was as music to her ears, and ever since, Selyse noticed that Shireen stood taller than she ever had before. She stared at the ground less often, could more easily meet others’ gazes, she was more willful. She had found her fire, and was becoming everything a queen should be.

Cersei Lannister had more than proved that beauty and grace were low among queenly virtues.

Stannis arrived later than most, with his onion knight at his side. Stannis dressed plainly, as was his wont. The only markers that separated him from his Hand were his shining golden crown, his cloth-of-gold cloak, and the jeweled hilt and scabbard of Lightbringer.

Seaworth greeted her courteously, “Your Grace,” he said, bowing low, and then, to Shireen, “Princess.”

She caught something wary in his gaze, when it turned to Shireen, but it was gone in half a heartbeat, and he was taking his place at Stannis’s side.

Stannis said nothing, of course. His mouth was pressed into a thin, grim line, and his eyes were hard.

“When it happens, Shireen, be strong,” Selyse said to her daughter. “A queen must be strong, always.”

Shireen stared up at her, her expression unreadable, her greyscale black in the dim light. She nodded, but clutched at her mother’s hand nonetheless. Shireen’s hand was warm, even in these minutes before the dawn.

_ Fitting of a daughter of fire, _ Selyse thought.

The sky was a dull grey in the pre-dawn light. An orange streak was spread across the horizon, like an errant painter’s stroke. Finally, as the great sun peaked over the edge of the world, Melisandre arrived.

Melisandre was striking, as she always was. The red silk of her dress clung to her in a way that would be scandalous on any other woman, but on her, Selyse could see it as naught but the pinnacle of elegance. Her blood-red hair and eyes glistened somehow brighter than her ruby choker in the first light of the sun.

At her side strode Ser Richard Horpe, one of her most loyal men, and one of the first to have come to the Lord of Light. His long cloak was clasped with a brooch of R’hllor’s fiery heart. His pockmarked face betrayed nothing of his emotion. In one hand he held a long hempen rope, and at its end was tied the man who would die. In his other hand, he held a torch.

Lord Alester Florent walked with his head high and his shoulders wide, but it was clear for all to see that his incarceration had reduced him to something lesser. He was skeletal where before he had been lithe. Where his hair had been silver it was now white. His face was gaunt, and his eyes clouded, but still, he walked proudly.

Ser Richard handed the torch to Lady Melisandre, led Alester all the way to the post, and then tied him firmly upon it. Lord Alester said nothing, only stared defiantly out upon them all.

Stannis stepped away from her and Davos, and took a position opposite Melisandre, cutting quiet what little mumbling and shuffling there had been prior. This was no nightfire, and it was not Stannis’s custom to lead prayer in any case. He gestured to Alester.

“Men and women of the Seven Kingdoms,” Stannis began, “before you stands a traitor.” His eyes grew harder than ever. “Lord Alester Florent supported the usurper Renly Baratheon against mine own rightful claim to the Iron Throne, and against the ties of blood and law that bind us together through my wife and your queen. I forgave him, and many others, their treasons, and I forgive them still. But I do not forget.” He scanned the crowd of onlookers. “I raised him high, made him Hand, gave him the power to speak with my voice. With that power, he sought to undermine me, and trade away my daughter as hostage to the very men that killed His Grace King Robert and the Lord Hand Jon Arryn before him. He sought to make common cause with abominations and usurpers, to men that allow a slaughter to occur under guest right.”

Selyse heard a trace of whispers throughout the assembled faithful. Somehow, Alester’s expression had not changed, she noted. He was proud and defiant still.

“For these crimes of high treason, there is only one punishment.” Stannis, oddly, looked to Shireen for a heartbeat, and then held his hand out to Lady Melisandre.

Selyse saw two things in that moment. She saw the way in which her king and husband looked upon the red priestess, a way in which he had never looked upon her; the way that the men and women of Dragonstone whispered about, that they all believed she was too dim-witted or oblivious to perceive. And she saw the mildest traces of shock in Melisandre’s red eyes, that she could only see due to her own familiarity with the woman.

It was all gone in half an instant. Melisandre handed over the torch to Stannis as if it had all been planned.

“I, Stannis of House Baratheon, First of my name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, in the Light of the Lord, do so sentence Lord Alester Florent to die.”

His gaze turned to her, and for one mad moment, she froze.

Then, she nodded.

Stannis knelt, and touched the torch’s flame to the dried grasses and scraps of kindling furthest from the post. Melisandre began to sing.

The flame spread slowly, at first, and Alester’s face remained proud and firm. The fire crawled across the ground with contemptuous sluggishness, from branch to branch, from scrap to scrap. Then, it began to roar, and fly forward, closer and closer. Still, Alester was dignified, as a lord should be. Melisandre’s singing was drowned out by the fire.

And then, the red and yellow and orange tongues of flame reached the post. Selyse saw the fear enter Alester’s eyes then. When the blaze reached his feet, he finally began to scream. It was low in the beginning: a man’s scream. Then the fire jumped upwards and he began to jerk and shudder and strain against his bindings, and he was wailing; a high and thin screech piercing even above the roar of the fire and the loud foreign tones of Melisandre’s song. His silver hair whipped this way and that as he thrashed about in vain. He was begging, shouting, calling the Seven, calling to R’hllor, to Stannis, to Selyse, to Axell. To anyone that would listen.

Selyse felt the heat blaze against her face. The fire roared high, and Melisandre’s song crested. The screaming stopped.

Her eyes stung.

Her hand jerked, and she became aware of her daughter holding her hand once again. She’d almost forgotten that Shireen was there.

“Mother?”

Selyse wiped at her eyes. “It is only the smoke, Shireen.” Her chest felt empty, and her head felt light. “It is only the smoke,” she repeated.

As the fire slowly guttered out, Selyse began to feel a breeze.

* * *

 

**_Davos_ **

Salla’s  _ Valyrian _ was far more crowded than had been King Stannis’s original intention.

There were changes in the final hours, Davos was told, and the queen and princess were aboard Salladhor Saan’s pride and joy as well. With them were the fool Patchface, and several of the queen’s ladies. That Ser Axell had not been forced aboard the ship was something of a blessing in Davos’s eye. Anything that helped him to avoid the man’s glares and thinly-veiled threats was something Davos approved of.

Still, there was more commotion, and sailors were a naturally superstitious lot. Davos knew there would be complaints of the women aboard.

The sailors ( _ Pirates _ , Davos corrected) were a varied group of men, as Salla cared little for distinguishing between the lands men called home. They were primarily of Lyseni descent, with more than a few sporting the fair almost silvered hair of the old Freehold, though none bore the purple eyes of the Targaryens. Of those that weren’t Lyseni, the bulk clearly hailed from one Free City or another, and there were even a few bearing the Volantene tattoos that marked them for a former slave. A Summer Islander or three wandered the  _ Valyrian _ ’s decks as well.

All had been enriched considerably by King Stannis’s employment, or, more accurately, the late Lord Alester’s granting of the “Lordship of Blackwater Bay”. Many a ship had been “taxed” in those weeks of Stannis’s solitude and many more in the weeks after. As a result, swaggering sailors now wore the fruits of their taxation with pride. Silks and jewels from far off lands dotted the bodies of men who’d been born to dockside whores.

_ Lord Alester… _

It had not been something Davos had wanted to see. Were he not the Hand of the King, he would have abstained from attending entirely. But he had a duty to his king. So he went, and he watched.

Davos remembered what he had said, when they had shared a dungeon cell for those days.

_ “ _ _ Did we learn nothing from Aerion Brightfire, from the nine mages, from the alchemists? Did we learn nothing from Summerhall? No good has ever come from these dreams of dragons.” _

Davos knew little and less of the nine mages and alchemists, and only some small scraps of Summerhall. Dragons, Davos knew. Stone dragons. That had been the reason Edric was to burn. With dragons, Stannis could cleanse the filth of King’s Landing and the Lannister abominations by fire.

But it was Alester who had burned, not Edric Storm or King’s Landing.

Alester had committed treason, in Davos’s eye as well as Stannis’s, and death was the punishment for a crime so high. But by fire? It was a terrible end. Unnecessary.

Or… that’s what Davos would have liked to think.

Leaning over the taffrail, watching Salla’s fleet all but fly across the water with speeds Davos had never once experienced in his many long years on the seas, he found it despairingly difficult to fault Stannis for his decision.

_ A devil’s wind… but a wind unlike any other. _

Their voyage to the Wall would be swift, swifter than he’d have ever thought possible. Melisandre’s power was terrible, Davos knew that better than anyone, but here it was to serve a greater purpose. Through it, they could do good. Through it, Stannis could protect the kingdom that was his. Stannis did not need dragons.

_ “No good has ever come from these dreams of dragons.” _

Shireen had made mention of dragons to him. She’d asked if he had ever heard of men hatching them during his travels, during the mistakes and misadventures of his youth. He hadn’t of course, for if he had, surely a king and his princess would have already known of it. Davos had struck the conversation from his mind, for Edric had been occupying his thoughts most fiercely, and tales told by seamen and traders were hardly worth remembering.

But then, the night he had saved Edric’s life, after the death of Joffrey called Baratheon, Edric had said something.

He had struggled more fiercely than Davos had expected, when he had been denied the opportunity to pay his farewells to the princess. Ser Andrew had had to bodily move the child, and during the tussle, Davos heard the boy grumble something.

_ “The egg–Shireen–” _

Davos had managed to calm him by the time they reached the rowboat, but he had not forgotten what Edric had said.

Shireen asking of dragons, and Edric fighting over eggs.

Had Melisandre’s prophecies of stone dragons reached even the ears of the children? Or was there something more at play?

Not for the first time, Davos wished he was at Cape Wrath, with his Marya and the two sons he had not seen in too many months. Little Stannis and Steffon would not know him when they saw him, he felt, and Devan should know the brothers that remained him.  _ Cape Wrath would not be mine were it not for Stannis _ . He shook his head.  _ I am Stannis’s man. _

He had a duty to his king, to the man that raised him from nothing. A smuggler, to a knight, to a lord. He was more than he had any right to be, and it was because of Stannis.

And then, as if summoned from his very thoughts, his king was there.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Your Gra–”

“None of that,” Stannis cut him off, scoffing. “I have had enough of formalities today.”

Davos smiled at that. He knew that Stannis disliked the mummery that was often asked of kings, but he had partaken in it nonetheless.

“Saan says that we shall be at Eastwatch in less than a month,” Stannis said, the traces of good humor in his tone.

“A month?” Davos pondered, looking up to the billowing sails. He scratched his beard. “If this wind keeps up, I’d wager less. Twenty days perhaps.”

Davos saw shock in his king’s dark blue eyes. Stannis laughed drily. “If I’d had these winds when Robert sent me to Dragonstone, I’d have never lost Storm’s End.”

“Perhaps, Your Grace.” Davos remembered those days clearly, even now. His shortened hand had still been a new thing to him then, and his luck had still hung around his neck. He missed it. “Or it might have sent us right into the storm that sunk the Targaryen fleet.”

Stannis smirked darkly at that. “Let us pray then that there is no storm awaiting us at Eastwatch, then.”

_ To which Gods? _

They both stared out at the sea for a time. They had not shared ships often, in recent years, for Davos had always captained his  _ Black Betha, _ while Stannis tended toward his war galleys when the occasion called for sea travel. Before they had all burned up in Blackwater Bay, with thousands of good men, and four of his own sons among them.

Always, it came back to fire, it seemed.

“Why did you do it?” Davos asked.

“Do what, onion lord?” Stannis countered, the good humor not quite leaving him yet.

Davos glanced sidelong at his king. The truth is what he had asked of him, when he made him Hand. Davos could peddle truth. “Was it not the Lady Melisandre who was to burn Alester Florent?”

Stannis frowned, his blue eyes hardening defensively. “It was.”

“Then why take it upon yourself, Your Grace?” he pressed. “Did she force y–”

“–She did no such thing!” Stannis snapped. “Bah,” he said, gritting his teeth. He gripped the taffrail hard, and looked outward, away from Davos. The galley  _ Samarro  _ was the closest to the  _ Valyrian. _

Davos knew to not press Stannis too far. He had known him for far too long to make such a mistake. He leaned over the rail and took in the smell of the air. To his chagrin, he could not enjoy it; he smelt only smoke.

Finally, his king stirred. “It was Shireen,” Stannis said, still staring out at the fleet.

Davos started. “The princess?”

Stannis nodded firmly. “When she asked that she travel aboard this same ship, she referred to me as Azor Ahai.”

It was no secret that the princess had, in recent weeks, taken to the Red God with more fervor than she had before. Devan had complained of her adherence to the Seven, even, and had been ecstatic to tell him of her discovery of the “true faith”.

“She heard it at the nightfires, or from Her Grace,” Davos supplied.

Stannis grunted. “Azor Ahai is a hero,” he said, “as Lady Melisandre says it, he was scarce less than a God. The son of fire. The warrior of light.”

Whenever Davos heard the name, he could think only of Nissa Nissa, and the price the man would pay for his heroism. “Aye, I know the tale.”

“…Such a man… ought to do it himself,” Stannis ground out. “…If I would be this chosen hero, then I should take the bad with the good, I feel.”

Davos almost grasped for his Luck. Stannis had once told him that a good act could not wash out the bad, or a bad act the good.  _ Each should have its own reward. _ What would Stannis’s reward then be, for such a thing?

“Do you believe it, Your Grace? That you are the fabled hero come again?”

Stannis looked to him, his expression odd and uncertain. “Do you believe this wind, Lord Davos?”

“I do,” Davos replied. How could he not?

Stannis gestured up to the billowing sail. “Time and again, Melisandre has shown her power. I believe in her power, and I have seen into the flames. Why then should I not believe her words as well?”

Davos shrugged. “I don’t know Your Grace. I know little of prophecy.”

Letting go of the taffrail, Stannis stood straight. (Davos, at times, forgot how much his king towered over him.) “Whatever the case, my lord Hand, know that I did not ask for it. No more than I asked for the crown.” Stannis beckoned hard. “Now, walk with me Davos.”

Davos did.

As he followed his king, Davos spied the princess playing with Devan further down the deck. The fool was nowhere to be seen. He heard the princess’s screams of delight echo in the wind, and the grunts and songs of sailors hard at work. Davos heard the creak of wood and the calls of seabirds.

But most of all, Davos heard the wind. And it sounded like screams.

* * *

 

**_Aegon_ **

“How fare your lessons in the Old Tongue?” Haldon asked, laying back in the bed provided to him.

Aegon frowned, leaning forward in his hard seat. “They fare well, I suppose. It’s no small trifle, learning that tongue.” He laughed. “Big Boil isn’t so strong a teacher as you, Halfmaester.”

Since his injury, Haldon had been staying in a spare room close to Maester Aemon’s chambers. He had spent half his time assisting Maester Aemon before the battle, so it was not much of a change, in truth, but Aegon was dismayed to witness Haldon all but wither before his eyes. He had seemed to age years in the mere weeks of his recovery.

Of course, it did not help that Haldon had seen fit to remove himself from his bed with alarming frequency.

Haldon’s cool grey eyes crinkled, and he laughed a short laugh. “Have you managed to converse with any of those Thenns as yet?”

“Just a day ago, in fact.” Aegon smiled broadly at that. “Mother have mercy, any one of those men is worse than Jon on his worst days.” As he saw Haldon’s good humor vanish, he felt the urge to strike himself for his tactlessness. “Forgive me, Haldon,” he said, wincing.

Haldon waved the apology off, a tired frown decorating his too-lined face.

Jon had become… increasingly difficult.

The reality of what the Night’s Watch faced here at Castle Black had frayed Jon to nothing, it seemed, and he had become all too vocal about the fruitlessness of staying. It was only Haldon’s injury during the battle, and his subsequent recuperation that kept them there.

But with every day that passed, the wildling horde crept closer, and Jon became one step more agitated. Just some days past, Jon had even made mention of making for Essos and leaving Haldon behind.

_ “If the Wall holds, he will be here when we return. If it does not, then he would rather you have lived,”  _ Jon had said.

Aegon had not approved.

It had not helped that Haldon’s wound had festered some, and so he his mending was taking considerably longer than Maester Aemon had initially thought it might.

“And  _ your _ studies Haldon? Have you found anything more about the dragonglass?” Aegon asked.

At that, the Halfmaester brightened almost imperceptibly. “Aye, I have.”

“It’s just as well,” Aegon replied, smirking. “If you’re going to get out of bed so much, you’d best be making use of the time.”

Haldon shook his head, smiling. “Sifting through the mess of tomes and records in that library–,” he laughed breathlessly, “–isn’t even something I’d ask of a healthy man. There are thousands of years of documents, most half illegible, and more than that all but worthless.”

Aegon had taken a look himself at Haldon’s behest, as well as on some handful of occasions he had assisted Aemon with a task in the library, and it was true. The great bulk of the books in Castle Black’s library would put even a learned man to sleep.

Early on, Aegon had brought the matter of dragonglass to Aemon’s attention, and he had told them that it was all too plentiful on Dragonstone. This, of course, was worthless to them, as it was currently held by the so-called “King” Stannis Baratheon. Dragonstone was a formidable fortress, in any case, and the loss of life required to take the island back might well negate the aid the dragonglass provided. It was a dead end, and since then, he had found nothing.

“And?” Aegon asked.

“ _ And _ I happened upon a particular trading log, with several mentions of our favorite shiny rock. Namely, that the Watch was no longer calling for it.”

“How old was it?”

Haldon shrugged. “Some thousand years old, I would say, perhaps older; the dating is unclear.”

“And where did they trade it from? Not Dragonstone, I would think.” Dragonstone had had only some scant villages in the days before the Targaryens had come to it. It had been a backwater before the Dragonlords had fled the doom, there was little chance that they had traded as far north as the Wall.

“There’s the rub.” Haldon smiled, but it was not so bright as it should have been. “It is much closer than Dragonstone, but not much more friendly, I fear.”

“Where, then?”

“Skagos.”

“Skagos?” Aegon repeated, frowning.

“Aye.”

Aegon crossed his arms. “Well, it is a part of the Seven Kingdoms, is it not? Under the North?”

“It is,” Haldon affirmed, “but it is more in name than in fact.”

Aegon groaned, and sat back in his chair, his fingers digging into his arms. Then, craving action, he shot up from his seat and trotted over to the fire. He grasped the black iron poker and stoked at the kindling some. “Is nothing easy, Haldon?” He said, stabbing at the cracking bits of wood.

Haldon laughed deeply, and for just a moment, he seemed to be vibrant and healthy again.

Then, over the light crackling of the fire, Aegon heard a faint echo.

_ Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahooooooooooooooooooooo. _

Aegon’s mind whirled, and he turned to Haldon, “Did you hear it?”

Haldon’s brow furrowed, “It’s the dead of night, it must–”

_ Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahooooooooooooooooooooo. _

They both waited in stunned silence. But after several more seconds, they knew that that had been the end of it.

“Two blasts,” Aegon breathed, his heart hammering in his chest. 

He saw blue-grey eyes, and fiery red hair. Her bloody red lips formed two simple words.

“Aye,” Haldon said with a violent cough. “Wildlings.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to experiment with multi-POVs, and as a result this chapter ended up massive. Oops. Still, hope it was enjoyable!
> 
> I got some commissioned art for this story, but I don't really know how to go about sharing it with y'all besides inserting it into the story. It's a bit spoiler-iffic, so I wouldn't want to spoil anyone that doesn't want to be. If anyone has a good suggestion, lemme know!


	18. Nights and Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Night's Watch looses blindly into the night; Shireen learns from papa Stan and debates religion with her two moms; the Wildlings have a bad time

_Chapter XVIII: Nights and Days_

**_Aegon_ **

The first night had been the worst.

Black brothers spilled into the dark cold of Castle Black’s night, each roaring and shouting and confused. The winch cage was quickly claimed by the officers of the Watch, and so he had climbed the long switchback stair instead, with many a lower Brother at his heel. By the time he reached the top, he had felt half a corpse, his breathing coming in ragged gasps and his legs as sore as they had ever been.

Through the aiming holes in the newly built hoardings, he saw little but darkness.

But he heard the whipping of the wind, and myriad Wildling horns. He heard horses, even from this great distance. And he heard something else, something that brought to mind the menageries he had once visited.

When Bowen Marsh had ordered flaming pitch sent sailing into the snow and trees, he had seen them. Mammoths. Dozens, or even hundreds of them. One had caught fire and fled trumpeting into the wood.

Then they were blind again, and could only see the dim lights ambling through distant trees.

What followed, was one of the longest nights of Aegon’s life.

Arrow after arrow, hour after hour.

Loosing arrows at nothing, for even the fires they started with oil or pitch would burn for only a short time. He imagined what he aimed at as he loosed shaft after shaft, but he knew that it didn’t matter. To either side of him, men in black loosed arrows beyond counting. Some men had gone down into the tunnel when they realized giants ( _Giants!)_ were making an assault on the gate. At some point in the night, Duck had found him and taken the position to his right.

Duck was no stellar marksman, but it mattered little.

For a time, Bowen Marsh had called for them to nock, draw, and loose in sync. But his voice had gone hoarse quickly, and any semblance of order had vanished like so many arrows into the night.

The twin trebuchets threw all through the dark. Rocks, barrels filled with stones and then frozen; whatever the Watch had managed to get to the top of the Wall that could be throne, was thrown. The men at the trebuchets worked studiously, and for a good while, the sounds of the trebuchets’ workings took precedence in his mind. That, and the endless _twangs_ of the bowstrings.

The gloom consumed him in those hours, and there were few, if any, japes shared among the men past the first.

Nock, draw, loose.

Nock, draw, loose.

 _Nock, draw, loose_.

It became his life.

Septon Cellador had prayed loudly and drunkenly for a spell; he beseeched the Warrior to grant them courage, and the Smith to grant them strength. Or at least, that’s what Aegon thought the man was saying, but he had stopped paying him any heed all too quickly. Lemore had relieved the sot of his solemn duty some time into the night, and had brought up warm broth with the aid of a handful of stewards.

Nock, draw, loose.

Nock, draw, loose.

Nock, draw, _loose._

As the night had worn on, other Sworn Brothers had come to relieve their comrades. There were more fighting men than there was room in the hoardings, and so Marsh had ordered that only those in the hoardings’ protection should act as archers. However unlikely it was that the Wildling arrows could actually reach them, a live man was better than a dead one, especially if the gate was ever truly breached.

Several had tried to relieve Aegon of archery duty, but he had refused them. Duck too, had insisted that he let his arms rest. But he had persisted.

It was Calum who had finally managed to dislodge him from his position.

_“Give it up ya daft cunt. The damn wildlings will still be out there in the morning.”_

For whatever reason, it had worked.

He had handed the brawny Eastwatch man his bow, given Duck a perfunctory nod, and then taken the winch down the Wall. He might have risked the stair if he hadn’t thought there was a considerable risk of him accidentally careening over the edge and dying screaming.

He had laughed darkly at the thought, all but delirious by then.

_An ignoble end to the Targaryen line._

Somewhere, somehow, Lemore had appeared at his side, and guided him to their lodgings in the King’s Tower. Men bustled through the yards, carrying dark blurs he could not identify. There was a grand commotion at the tunnel, screams and shouts and the clinking of black ringmail.

He was so tired, and it was almost dawn. He had just wanted to see the enemy.

Aegon vaguely remembered seeing Jon before he fell asleep.

* * *

_There was the Wall, standing tall and proud against the dark. And then it was falling, crumbling into so many pieces as he had seen a thousand times before. Then, it stood again, and he was a dragon winging fruitlessly into the great dark gloom, and arrows were falling all around him, hitting nothing and everything at once. They bounced off his hard scales one moment, and plunged into his eyes the next._

“Put down your visor!” _He heard Duck yell at him._

I can’t, _he called back._

_He fell to the ground, feeling the snow and trees crunch against his face, blind to the world, screaming for help._

_He heard Jon’s voice, harsh and unyielding and knowing._

“We shouldn’t be here,” _his father said._

 _Aegon tried to stand, but his knees gave out beneath him, and he could find no purchase with his hands._ We have a purpose here, _he said, feeling the cold against his face._ We must.

_Then faces were all around him. Blue eyes, blue and sharp and terrible. Glowing like so many stars in the night’s sky. And then, they were not so terrible, but the eyes of a woman. Paler, greyer, less blue. Worse. Worse than the terrible ones. Her lips formed words that he knew; he had heard them too many times._

“Do it, please,” _she said._

_He wanted to shout, but he couldn’t find his voice._

I did, damn you, I did!

_The cold crept into his veins; he knew not if he was man or dragon, but the cold bit all the same. He cursed it, fought it, searched for the heat he knew that he had._

_And just before he woke, he had felt it. He felt the heat come into him. Felt the fire flow through his every limb and organ._

_Fire and blood._

_Blood and fire._

* * *

 

**_Shireen_ **

Shireen enjoyed her lessons with father.

She had always enjoyed her lessons, of course, but she felt comfortable saying that father might be her very favorite teacher.

Maester Cressen had always been kind and caring, and he was so old that he could tell her all manner of stories about her father or her uncles, or even her grandparents. He had taught her to read and to write, and for that, she would always love him, and miss him too.

Maester Pylos had been her teacher for only a short while compared to Cressen, but he had had a real energy compared to Cressen. He was much younger, obviously, but it still made him a very different instructor. She loved his drawings too.

But learning with father… that was something some part of her had always wished for, but she had almost given up hope that it would ever happen. He was always gone in her youth, away at King’s Landing to act as Master of Ships… and the few occasions they had to spend time with one another were all too rare and brief. And then after Uncle Robert died… he was simply too busy. He had a war to plan, and a throne to win.

And now, he finally had the time and opportunity to teach her.

Yet, despite her enjoyment of it… there were times that she truly felt apart from her father.

Sitting in a plush Pentoshi chair in Salladhor Saan’s cabin, a thought had occurred to her.

“Father?”

Her father stared harshly down at a map, having just finished an explanation of how much longer it should take for them to sail the Narrow Sea. His hard blue eyes seemed to be willing the map to burst into flames.

“Yes?” He grunted.

She struggled to find her voice for a moment, and found her hand trailing to the pocket that held her egg. When it brushed it, her voice returned to her. “Should Rhaenyra have been queen?”         

His gaze quickly slid from the map to her own. “Of course not,” he replied firmly.

She chewed her lip. “Why not?”

“She sought to usurp her brother’s claim,” he said simply. “The Iron Throne was Aegon’s by every law in the Seven Kingdoms.”

 _Not in Dorne_ , she wanted to say, but Dorne had not yet even been folded into the realm in those days. Aegon the Conqueror had claimed it when he crowned himself, but it was Daeron the Good who joined it to the rest of Westeros. And besides, few outside Dorne cared to consider Dornish law.

But… “King Viserys made her his heir, though, did he not?”

“He did,” father said. “But that was only due to his lack of a son.” He snorted. “The first Viserys was a fat fool who disregarded the very precedent that gave him the throne. He thought to avoid the issue of succession, and the realm itself bled for his sloth.”

Shireen frowned. That was all true, she knew, for Rhaenys “The Queen Who Never Was” and her line had been passed over in favor of the first Viserys. The male line must always come first, they said.

“Is not a king’s word law, father?” She replied, finally. “He named her heir, should not the lords have listened?”

He looked at her hard, for a moment, and she could almost hear his teeth grinding. Then, he beckoned to her.

Shireen removed herself from the chair and quickly stepped up alongside her father.

Father jabbed a thick forefinger at the spot on the map that she knew to be King’s Landing. “Even a king is bound to the law, Shireen. If every king were to act as he saw fit, regardless of what the kings before him had done, the realm would be chaos.” He looked down to her, solemn. “Mad King Aerys did as he saw fit, he threw all caution, all precedent, to the wind, and he died for it. If I would have the smallfolk and the lords follow my laws, then so too should I.”

Her hand sought the egg again. She wished she could hold it in both hands.

“But you’ve named me heir,” she said. “I’m just a girl–”

“–you are the only legitimate heir to the throne. There are no others.”

Shireen remembered what Melisandre had said so long ago, the day that the Red Priestess had begged her to look into the fires. “What if the lords disagreed? What if they wanted Edric?”

Her father scoffed. “He is a bastard, and you are trueborn.”

“But they could ask you to legitimize him, couldn’t they father? Alyn Velaryon was a bastard, and he became the Lord Velaryon.”

“They could beg it, but I would not. You are my heir, and that is the end of it; king’s son or no, Edric Storm will never be king.” He breathed out loudly, something that was almost a sigh but not quite. “What brought this on, Shireen?”

She fought the urge to shrink in on herself, she needed to be strong, mother had said so. “I have been reading of Daeron the Good’s reign, of the Blackfyre Rebellion… and I’ve read of the Dance too.” She looked to the map, unable to hold her father’s gaze. “I would not want the realm to have war so… so that I could be queen.”

A strange sound caught her attention then, and for half a heartbeat she thought her father was choking. Belatedly, she realized he was laughing. It was a rare sound to her ear.

“Father?”

The sound was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. He looked down to her, smirking lightly, with the barest hint of merriment in his deep blue eyes. “If you were to become queen this very instant, you would already be a better ruler than half the kings Westeros ever had.” He rolled up the map. “Keep to your studies, and you will have precious little to worry of.”

Shireen smiled. She wanted to be a good queen. She wanted to help people, and guide the realm to a brighter tomorrow, past all the wars and the death. She nodded. “You’ll win, father. I know you will.”

Her father grunted. “So we all thought before the Blackwater.” But his eyes did not harden as they usually did when the Blackwater was mentioned. “Run along Shireen, go find your fool. Make certain that he does not drown a second time.”

She nodded again, and exited the cabin in a flurry, leaving her father alone among the myriad garish decorations of Salladhor Saan.

* * *

 

Shireen found Patches at the prow of the _Valyrian_. The deck was a loud and busy place, and Patches tended to prefer resting places that were somewhat less chaotic, but belowdecks was hardly any better. As a result, he had taken to the prow; he liked to look out over the open sea.

“See anything nice, Patches?” she asked.

He bobbed his head furiously, a big sloppy grin on his red-and-green face, but said nothing. His “crown” had been stored away, so his nodding was less noisy than it usually was.

She looked out over the open ocean. It was different, seeing it here, than it was back on Dragonstone. It was bigger, and louder too, somehow. She liked the whipping of the wind, and the noises the birds made as they flew in close to them at times. She liked the rude and silly songs the men sang as they worked. She liked playing with Devan and Patches. She liked having father and mother both close at hand.

Shireen opened her mouth wide and took a huge, gulping breath of air.

She liked the way the wind tastewd, too.

It was sweet.

* * *

 

**_Jon_ **

“And which ones are those?” Young Griff asked.

Jon squinted out the hole in the hoarding.

“Looks like Cave Dwellers.”

“How can you tell?”

A fair question. From the top of the Wall it was rather difficult to make out much of anything regarding the wildlings. Thenns were always easier to make out with the bright shine of their armor, and giants were all too plain, but it was harder if one didn’t know the tell-tale marks of the different “Free Folk” clans and tribes.

“It’s the face paint,” Jon answered. “The Cave Dwellers like to paint their faces all manners of ghoulish colors. Some wildlings believe that they do it in worship of their dark underground gods.”

Young Griff scoffed. “Some? Don’t the wildlings communicate with each other? How can they not know?”

Jon shrugged. “I’m of the North, and I know but little of the ways of the Crannogmen.” He turned to the taller boy. “Do you know everything there is to know of the Free Cities?”

“I suppose not,” Young Griff agreed.

“Many of the wildling tribes have centuries old feuds; most will have little contact with each other beyond the smaller clans within a given region.” Jon looked back out beyond the Wall, and eyed the stagnant host that lingered at the tree-line. So many men, and more were getting there every day. “It’s a rare occasion that the wildlings can see beyond their old wounds. Mance is a rare man to bring them together.”

The Essosi squire looked out to the enemy as well. “It’s not Mance Rayder alone that brings them together.”

Jon made a noise of assent.

He shivered.

The hoardings shielded them somewhat from the winds that were common at the top of the Wall, but they were not so effective as the warming sheds that dotted the Wall’s long trail. _I survived the Frostfangs. This should be nothing._ But already he had become more used to the warmer weather of Castle Black, and found himself cursing the cold with increasing regularity.

Jon rubbed his hands together in a vain attempt to warm himself. Activity was always a fair means of getting the blood running hot, but the wildlings seemed to be avoiding any sort of offensive for the day. They had retreated out of range of bowshot and catapult both (though the catapults were both in need of repair regardless), and so they could do little but watch them for the time being.

“Rather boring, isn’t it?” Jon said.

Young Griff laughed. “Donal Noye told me of the Siege of Storm’s End. I’d rather be here than there, I’ll say that.”

Donal Noye had told many a tale of the Siege of Storm’s End, and not a one of them had been good. Months without end of drills and starvation, all while the wound in his arm festered. At the moment, the one-armed blacksmith was hard at work wasting his many talents to craft innumerable arrowheads. “If the gods are good, this siege will not last so long.” Jon stretched his burned hand. “My father lifted that siege, at the end of Robert’s Rebellion.”

“Did he now?” The blue-haired boy’s smile had a quality Jon could not readily define. “Did Ned Stark speak often of the Rebellion? I understand he was quite the hero.”

Something that was almost a laugh escaped Jon, and he shook his head. “No.” He shook his head again. “My father rarely spoke of the Rebellion... We tried–Robb and I– to get him to tell us stories of his battles, but he was quite resistant. Still, there were times that he broke his silence.”

“I know far too well how that is,” Young Griff agreed.

That caught Jon’s attention. But Ser Rolly was too young to have fought in Robert’s Rebellion… and what little he knew of the one called Halfmaester denoted that he had been a man of the Citadel. Which meant… “I thought your father was a sellsword?” Jon said, almost accusatorily.

“Not in those days,” he replied, smirking.

“He was a loyalist then?” Jon asked, putting the pieces together quickly.

Young Griff nodded. “Aye. Rather than get sent here…” He gestured to the wooden structure of the hoarding. “…he fled to Essos. I’m rather glad he did, as it happens.”

Jon laughed earnestly at that. Many here on the Wall had been on the wrong side of Robert’s Rebellion, and he would not begrudge them that. If there was one thing he had learned from his time among the wildlings, it’s that good men fought on all sides of every war.  “And yet he ended up at the Wall just the same? Can’t imagine he’s happy about that.”

The sellsword’s son joined in his laughter then. “If only you knew, Snow. Every single day I suffer an earful about how we should be leaving this “godsforsaken pile of ice”. He lowered his voice comically in poor imitation of the elder Griff.

Jon could not lie. The Wall had definitely seemed a godsforsaken pile of ice when he had first come to it; he would never forget the harsh lessons Tyrion Lannister had attempted to teach him during their journey to Castle Black. But in the face of the wildling army, it was certainly worse. “Why stay? What holds your party here?”

“Haldon’s wound is not yet healed,” he answered, his reply immediate. “I would never leave one of my own behind. This wall will hold yet.”

It had been near a month since Jon’s return to Castle Black and the battle that saw Styr and his Thenns lain low. _And Ygritte_ , a part of him whispered, but he squashed it quickly. “By now, it would be healed enough I should think. Ride slow and it should not aggravate the wound enough to cause him harm.”

Young Griff shrugged noncommittally. “I would rather take the safest route for him.”

 _And the Wall is safe?_ He wanted to say it, but he let it drop. _Every man has their reasons_.

Jon eyed the boy’s blue hair for what felt like the thousandth time. He would never grow used to it. How Pyp and Dareon could treat it so casually he could not understand, and why the boy did not shorten his hair he understood even less. He knew his own hair was somewhat long to many men’s standards, but Young Griff put him to shame and then some. Essosi traditions were sight to behold, truly.

Almost idly, he noted that the blue in the boy’s hair was fading at the roots. And the color…

“Is your hair silver by nature?” Jon asked quizzically and suddenly.

The Young Griff started at that, but laughed it off half a heartbeat later. “Indeed it is.” He flicked his long mane of blue around. “I should get to dying it again.”

 “I’ve not seen silver hair except on old men.” Jon smirked.

Young Griff laughed louder at that. “It is not so uncommon in the Free Cities, Lys especially. Even among smallfolk it is seen frequently enough.” He nodded, to himself more than anything. “Though I should say it is not so common as blue or green or purple.”

Essos was a strange place.

–Then, there was movement at the tree-line, and Jon reached for his bow. Griff did the same.

* * *

 

**_Shireen_ **

Shireen had kept to her studies, just as father had asked of her. She enjoyed reading generally, of course, but she had decided to work ever harder at it in light of their nearing the Wall. They had passed the Fingers and then the Three Sisters what felt like ages ago, and were steadily climbing their way up the Narrow Sea.

The wind had not let up.

Shireen had heard men call it many different names. “The Red God’s Gale,” “The Witch’s Wind,” “R’hllor’s Grace,” “the Lord’s Guidance.” Whatever they called it, the wind had been a grand boon, and she had even seen Father express continual surprise at their quick progress when he drilled her over the maps and routes. Their pace was incredibly brisk, by all accounts.

As much as she’d have liked to finish it, she had set aside her tome on the life and rule of King Daeron the Good. Maester Pylos, as smart as he ever was, had done her a great kindness in his packing; among the documents and records her father might possibly need, he had included a book concerning the houses and history of the North. While her father had not demanded any extra reading outright, she knew his standards to be high, and she wanted to please him.         

They would be spending much time in the North, she knew, and if she would one day call herself queen of the Northmen, then she should know as much about them and their lands as she knew about the Stormlands, or the Targaryens.

She had read much in the time that she had free to herself. She had had to leave Patchface alone more often than she would have liked, but every moment that she was not with Father, attending to Mother, or (rarely) playing with Devan, she was reading.

Many a day, she found herself reclining in Salladhor Saan’s cabin, with one of father’s guards nearby, and the thick tome in hand. The North was large, and its history was long. The rest of the Seven Kingdoms could fit in the North if they were stuffed together, and she had never quite realized that until she began her delving into Archmaester Lucan’s _The Land and Lore of the North._

There were many lordly houses, just as there were in every one of the Seven Kingdoms, but there were not so many as the land’s size might suggest. She knew a goodly deal about Starks, but much less about Boltons or Umbers or Karstarks, and even less about Flints or Wulls or Norreys. Every page she turned, she was exposed to some strange new happenstance that she had never heard of, or heard only snatches of.   
  
The Boltons’ many wars with the Starks, the rise and fall of House Greystark, the joining of House Manderly into the Kingdom of the North, and more. It was a brand-new world to Shireen, one that was similar to the world she knew, but different enough to catch her interest.

And the Old Gods…

There was comparatively little, when it came to that matter, but it was already more than she knew from most of her prior teachings. Septon Barre had made little mention of the Old Gods before mother had sent him away, and Lady Melisandre had talked of them a time or two, but for the most part, it was a new subject to her.

Heart trees and godswoods, she knew of, but the resistance of the First Men against the Andals and the Faith of the Seven was newer. Or at least, to read it in such detail was newer to her.

Yet, even despite the Northmen’s adherence to their old faith, they had not forbidden worship of the Seven, as the Iron Islanders had done at times. House Manderly was among the most influential houses in the North, and they were proud worshippers of the Seven-who-are-One.

Lucan’s ideas as to how the faiths could so coexist stirred something in Shireen.

_How will they feel about R’hllor?_

Lady Melisandre had burned the godswood at Storm’s End, and she had burned the statues of the Seven on Dragonstone. Edric had never forgiven her for it, complaining loudly and frequently every time he was called for a leeching. Shireen herself had been distraught as she watched the Seven burn, so long ago.

_No one likes to see their gods turn to ash._

She had never heard the Old Gods in the trees, and despite her many visits to the sept, she had never truly felt the touch of the Seven in her life. But she had _experienced_ R’hllor. The Lord of Light had shown her the _truth_ in the fire, even though she had never done a single thing for Him. She believed in His power, just as father and mother did.

_He guides us._

Otherwise, why would He have shown her the egg? Why would He have sent Silverwing to show her the way?

But… it was fine if other people still believed in their gods, wasn’t it?

She loved Edric, and she loved Myrcella and Tommen too… Even if they weren’t really her cousins, even if she might never get to see them again. Their belief in their gods did not make any of them bad.

Not every man could be graced with visions, Lady Melisandre herself said so. Could Shireen fault others for not believing what they could not feel or see?

 _‘One god, one realm, one king,”_ some of father’s men chanted.

But was that something that was good for Westeros?

Or would it harm it?

* * *

 

They were near Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

The men were becoming restless; father had begun to pace with increasing frequency during her lessons (she thought he might wear a hole into the wood of the ship as he lectured on the many faults of Uncle Robert). The wind had begun to slow, and the eve of battle drew ever closer.

Shireen would see none of the battle, of course, but it was a looming specter to everyone aboard the _Valyrian_ nonetheless.

The final nightfire aboard the _Valyrian_ was a grander affair than those that had occurred over the course of the voyage. Salladhor Saan had been vocal in his resistance to Lady Melisandre’s nightfires, but the famed pirate captain was vocal in just about everything.

 _“A strutting cock, that one is,”_ Father had griped, to her laughter.

The fires for Melisandre’s nightfires had been small, and several man were prepared to smother it out at the slightest hint of it spreading. As a result, the nightfires had not been the most majestic of ceremonies while they soared across the Narrow Sea. Lady Melisandre led prayers, mother led the responses, and they all prayed for the dawn.

Many among Saan’s crew were in fact followers of R’hllor, so there was no major resistance to it, as there had once been on Dragonstone, but sailors were fearful of fire on a ship, and Shireen found that she could not blame them.

Lord Davos and Salladhor Saan both had figured it was less than a day until they reached Eastwatch, and so mother had deemed this a cause for celebration. A larger brazier was hauled out from the stores, and a larger fire was started.

Father had not countermanded her, and so Saan was forced to relent.

The fire was nothing compared to the fires they had on Dragonstone, but it was the largest she had seen in almost a month. Faithful gathered all around, sailors and knights and oarsmen alike. Shireen stood between mother and father, to the side of the fire, while Melisandre stood at its fore, as she always did.

Dimly, Shireen realized she had missed the fires like this. She felt warmer, this way. She felt it more deeply in her chest, in her very being.

“Servants of R’hllor!” Melisandre called out. “Our battle is very nearly upon us. We have come to the land of ice and cold, and we have brought light and warmth with us! The Great Other whose name must not be spoken wages his eternal war, and we have come to fight it!”

There was a cheer, and a stomping of feet.

“Demons await us,” She continued, “demons that would see to it that the night never ends. Demons that would deprive us of the light we so crave.” Melisandre shook her head. “Once, the world faced the same threat, and so R’hllor, in his infinite grace, sent us His chosen hero, Azor Ahai.” She swung her arm to father, her long dagged sleeve whipping in the wind and the smoke. “And so He has sent his warrior of light once again, to lead us against the dark.”

Father stepped away from her and mother, and moved to join Lady Melisandre in front of the brazier.

“The night is dark,” Lady Melisandre said, “and brims with terrors beyond our very dreams.”

Then, father spoke. “But the _Lord_ shall protect us,” he said, and he drew Lightbringer from its scabbard.

Lightbringer _shone_. For several heartbeats, it was as the sun, filling her entire world with its light; a rainbow of color reflecting off its shining steel. It was brighter than the nightfire, brighter than anything she had ever seen.

For those moments, it was day aboard the _Valyrian_ , and each and every one of them heard nothing but the fire and the wind, and they saw nothing but Lightbringer’s light.

He sheathed the blade, and it was as if she had been blinded, so dark did it become in an instant. Her breath tremored in her chest.

But her eyes adjusted quickly, and father returned to her side.

And then Lady Melisandre began to sing.

* * *

 

“It was beautiful, my lady,” mother said, a wide smile on her lips and the shine of fire in her eyes.

Shireen nodded furiously. “It was!”

“Thank you, Your Grace, princess,” Melisandre murmured. “Mark was a great boon to my efforts; it is a shame that he chose to stay on Dragonstone.”

It was the first song Lady Melisandre had sung in the common tongue, and it had been entrancing. Melisandre’s deep, rhythmic voice in their ears, Lightbringer in her mind’s eye, and the nightfire before them, it had touched her in a way she never thought it could, even as she had been the one to suggest the red priestess translate one of her songs.

Mother laughed haughtily, “We will find you another, worry not. There are singers in the North, just as there are in every other land.” Mother placed a hand on Shireen’s shoulder. “It was a grand idea, Shireen, the Lord smiles upon you, surely.”

“R’hllor’s Light will pierce many a clouded heart, in gratitude to you, princess.” Melisandre turned her beautiful smile on Shireen, and she felt… afraid, for a moment. She wanted to talk to the red priestess–about her worries–but the praise made her doubt her course.

She squirmed under the two women’s gazes and smiles. So unlike each other, and yet she looked up to the both of them nonetheless. One was beautiful, and the other was plain. But both were assured of their convictions. Both knew that they were correct.

 _But what if they aren’t_?

“My lady?” Shireen asked, unable to quash the pleading in her tone.

Immediately, Melisandre’s smile fell. “Princess? Is something the matter?” Mother stared at her too, her lips quickly returning to her characteristic firm straight line.

She didn’t know how to phrase it. Neither mother nor father cared for pleasantries… “I–” she halted, unable to cross the gap that lay before her.

“Shireen,” mother reprimanded. “What have I said of this stutter? Speak if you mean to, or don’t.”

Shireen swallowed. Her hand sought her egg at her side, but she caught her traitorous hand before it might draw attention to the bump in her dress. Still, she felt its pulsing warmth on her thigh.

“Lady Melisandre… I don’t think you should burn anymore statues. Or godswoods. Or anything or _anyone._ ” The words tumbled out of her mouth with a flurry and a strength that surprised her.

“Shireen!” Mother was angry, accusatory. “The Lo–”

But Melisandre warded her off with a raised hand, then she turned to Shireen again. Her gaze was harsher than it had ever been when directed at her. “Those trees, those statues of the so-called Seven… they are false idols. They are tools of the Great Other to lead men astray, to weaken His power so that the night to end all nights will come.”

“And Alester was a _traitor,_ ” Mother spat. “And Lord Sunglass too. Any king would have ordered their heads struck their necks! What is the difference from one death to another?” She laughed hollowly. “ _Better_ that they have a chance to ascend to His halls.”

Shireen had tried not to think of it. But despite her efforts, that night would stick in her memory no matter her will. The fire, the smoke, the screams. The silence as they all watched flesh, bone, muscle, and soul turn to ash. All of it had been terrible.

And yet, what she remembered the most was not the terror of it, but the _elation_ she had felt. And then her shame and confusion at that very feeling.

She frantically pushed those thoughts aside.

“Mother!” Shireen said forcefully, before freezing in shock at herself. “Mother,” she said more naturally, more docilely, “I worry for father.”

That brought mother pause, and the hardness left Melisandre’s fiery red eyes.

“The Andals and all their might could not force the Seven upon the Northmen, and neither did the Targaryens on their dragons.” She paused, trying to find the words to communicate what she felt. “Father comes to them, seeking their aid and offering his own… We cannot make them love the Lord.” She breathed more deeply. “It was not the statues burning that brought me to R’hllor, mother, it was the vision I saw, it was seeing His effect on you and father. I–If we come to them as the Andals did, they will not love us… But if we show them the Light, by our actions–and our character–and everything else–then they might join of their own will.”

Melisandre stared for a time, but Shireen refused to wilt under her eyes. “His Grace does not need their love, princess, only their loyalty.” Her ruby twinkled in the firelight.

She thought of the men who had so clamored for Uncle Renly, of how they had turned to father when he had been killed. She thought of how most of those same men had turned to Joffrey’s banner too, when father’s star did not shine as bright. She thought of Lord Davos, and Devan. She thought of Uncle Robert, and his grand rebellion.

Shireen stood up straighter. “If they will not love us, how can we trust their loyalty?” She held Melisandre’s gaze.

Then, “My apologies, my lady,” mother said, a severe frown now marring her grim face. She grabbed at Shireen’s hand, and tugged hard. “Come Shireen, it is time we retire. The Lady Melisandre has many duties to see to.”

Shireen defaulted to obedience, and bowed her head to the red priestess.

“Good night, princess,” the red priestess said, as she turned.

Mother pulled her away; she followed behind clumsily.

Harsh reprimands were her lullaby that night.

* * *

 

**_Duck_ **

“What do you think of him?” Griff asked.

Duck thought on it for a moment, picturing the fat, jowly ‘nobleman’ that had recently been brought to Castle Black by Ser Alliser Thorne. “Seems a proper bag of wind to me,” he replied.

Griff frowned at him, that way that only Griff truly could; for no man frowned quite so proficiently as Jon Connington.

“I meant Stark’s bastard.”

Duck shrugged languidly. “Better to ask your son, I think. Spends more time with the lad than I do.”

Growling, Griff shook his head. “That is exactly the problem you fool.”

Duck clutched at his chest in mock affront. Then, he laughed. “He’s not _poisoning_ him, Griff. If so, I’d think our little king would already be quite dead.”

“Quiet yourself,” Griff hissed, looking back and forth over the Wall’s broad battlements.

The men nearest them to either side were too far to overhear them; Duck was not fool enough to make such jests when men were near, whatever Haldon or Griff thought. Finally, he answered the question seriously. “Jon Snow seems a decent enough sort, otherwise I would think your son would not take to him so readily. Most of the men his age like him well enough, from what I’ve heard at supper.”

The older men, not so much. And especially not since Alliser Thorne had appeared with that Rattleshirt in tow. Every chance he got, the knight was whispering venom into men’s ears over the bastard’s treachery, no matter the decisions of Bowen Marsh and the other high officers.

“What do they speak of?”

Duck scratched at his beard. It had grown quite considerably since they came to the Wall; after all, it was now in his best interests to keep it bushy. The more warmth he could muster, the better he felt. “About the Wildlings, mostly.”

Ever since his supposed squire had begun to learn the Old Tongue from the one called Boil, he had grown much more interested in the particulars of the savages from beyond the Wall.

Griff frowned a lesser frown. “Is that all?”

“Snow tends to quiet when I’m near.” He huffed. “I don’t think he likes me much.”

Duck looked out to the Wildlings encamped at the forest’s edge. Men, women, children, and beasts milled about in camps that were strewn about the land haphazardly. If he had ever made such a camp in his days with the Golden Company, he was certain he’d have been lashed for it.

Conflict came about in fits and starts, and Duck found he had no particular preference for either. Atop the Wall, he was as safe as he’d ever been at Bitterbridge, so all an attack meant was tiring himself loosing arrows or throwing rocks.

At times, it was rather difficult to remember that they were facing a threat as great as they were. Of course, Griff made certain that none of them could _truly_ forget, what with his many attempts at persuading Aegon to return to Essos. Relations between ‘father’ and ‘son’ had become rather strained in the past weeks, and the past days in particular.

Then, as if the man who had knighted him could read his very thoughts as words from a page, Griff broached the subject Duck knew he had called on him for. “You should speak to my son.”

“What about?” He asked, feigning ignorance.

“About the _uselessness_ of this,” Griff growled. “We are wasting time here, time that could be spent convincing our _allies_ to ready themselves.”

“Strickland is stubborn as an aurochs,” Duck replied. “It is as likely that he refuses us in person as he did you by letter. It is dangerous here, aye, but not so much more dangerous than Essos can be.”

That was a slight exaggeration, of course. As dangerous as Essos could truly be, it was rare to have an army only a mile or two away.

“But I can attempt it,” Duck said. “It’s only rightful that a squire heeds his knight’s words.”

Griff had opened his mouth to answer then, but what admonishment he might have bestowed Duck with, Duck never heard, for at the far edge of the Wildling encampment, he saw movement.

He saw horses, and men in black.

* * *

 

**_Richard_ **

He heard screaming and shouting and the clatter of steel. He felt as much as he heard the horse beneath him pound relentlessly through muddy slush as it weaved its way through dense forest. His blood was up, he knew it already. He never tired of it, and he never would.

He had been a Warrior’s man, before, but that was long past.

Battle was what Richard Horpe had been born for. He knew that the very first time he picked up a stick and fought his cousin with it. And when he had first held a sword… well, any other course in his life had become null.

“Form ranks!” He shouted as they drew closer.

He could see the combat through the trees, oh so vaguely. Tantalizingly. Men in black leather, black ringmail, and black plate. Foolish men, sailors and oarsmen on horses.

Cotter Pyke had demanded the van, and the king had let him have it. Richard had yearned for the van, desired it as he did so few things in life, but even he could not fault the decision to let the Night’s Watch face battle first. It would lull them into complacency. They might expect a Night’s Watch attack, but they would not expect the storm coming after them.

“Sound trumpets!”

The trumpet sang their brassy howl all throughout his column, and he heard them echo from the center and the other flank as well. It was a howl that foretold violence, a howl that sang to him.

As Richard broke through the treeline at last, he heard a screech, and saw a fire rise in the eastern sky. _An eagle_ , he thought, _an eagle aflame._

R’hllor blessed them this day.

He couched his lance and grit his teeth in anticipation, the men all around him bracing themselves as well.

The Wildlings opposite them were a disorganized mess, wearing furs and leathers and wielding frail weapons of bone. Richard’s men were steel. Steel and fire. He felt his blood hum in his veins as his courser pounded through the snow. He saw the Wildlings’ fear all too clearly as they shambled into something that might be a defense, their eyes were wide and their hands unsteady; spears trembled in undisciplined hands.

Richard almost laughed.

As his column of horseflesh and steel and fury swept through the Wildlings, Richard felt the joy overcome him.

His courser trampled a man, and Richard took another in the eye with his lance. Eye and brain and blood coated its steel tip, but before he could find another man to stab, he was batting aside a truly pathetic spear with his tall shield. The fiercely bearded man who had chanced the strike had not anticipated his quick reaction, and had anticipated even less than lance blow that took him in the chest.

Men screamed and shouted. And he heard the clatter of steel.

_Music._

_The most beautiful song there is._

There was a trumpeting that could not be their own, and he saw that their center was collapsing against the might of the great hairy beasts that Pyke had called mammoths. But Richard’s column was carving through the wildlings with contemptuous ease, and so too was the opposite flank.

“Stannis!” he shouted.

The men to his right and his left took up the shout.

“Stannis!” “Stannis!” “For the king!”

He felt the _clink_ of an arrow bouncing fruitlessly against his chest armor as he pressed his mount further forward, stabbing to either side as he pushed through the mass of flesh and meat that was the Wildling defense. _I will have to mend my surcoat_ , he thought dimly. He very nearly laughed then.

Richard stabbed out, taking a boy who might’ve been sixteen years young. He wheeled around and thrust his deadly point through the figure that was attempting to take the man to his right. As the figure fell, clutching at falling innards, he realized it to be a woman and frowned, but he kept up his charge.

“Stannis!”

“Stannis!”

Trumpets blared and men were screaming. Horses trampled and died.

In battle, Richard felt as though he could see everything, react to everything. He twisted out of reach of a jagged bone-tipped spear, and replied with his own, only his found its mark in the shoulder of a fleshy tattooed man. Despite his helmet, his vision felt wider than it did in usual life. It felt truer.

His courser took a stab to its flank and screeched, but still it fought on.

Richard bashed the shield that bore his house’s sigil into the head of a hooded Wildling who should not have turned his head when he did, then spilled his guts with his lance.

But the Wildling was made of stronger stuff than he had seemed, and with his last breaths tugged the lance from Richard’s grip.

 _A shame_ , Richard thought as he drew his sword.

Another man fell at his hand when he caught sight of the closest thing to a hill these lands possessed. At the top of its stony ground was a tent of white fur, apart from the rest of what these Wildlings called a warcamp.

“Keep it up!” He yelled over the din of battle as he wheeled his horse away from their continued charge.

There was a chance that it was Mance Rayder’s command tent, and he would gladly take out the false king given the chance.

He saw women and children, far in the distance, fleeing the carnage. A mammoth fell to the lances that were beginning to surround it in the center. Giants shouted and broke through knights and free riders to escape into the trees.

_It is over, in any case._

When he came to the tent, he quickly dismounted and deposited his shield on the side of his wounded mount. Some ways away, he saw a slight, wounded man crawling toward the treeline. He had a half a mind to put the man down when he heard a high feminine wail of pain from within the tent.

Richard felt a fierce frown tug at his lips, and resolved to make an example of whatever lackwit of a man had deigned it intelligent to rape under the banner of King Stannis.

 _The king would have him gelded;_ _I am not so merciful._

He threw aside the tent’s flap and entered purposefully, his sword brandished before him.

“Put your cock away and die as–” the words died on his lips in an instant as he took in the confines of the tent.

There was no Mance Rayder, and no raper either.

There was an enormous horn at the tent’s far end, engraved with runes he did not know.

But closer, at the tent’s middle, surrounded in furs, was the source of the wailing. One woman, lying flat on her back, and another tending to her. A brazier smouldered at the crouching one’s back.

There was warmth, inside the tent. Warmth and the stench of blood.

And then the crouching woman had fumbled for something, and she was screaming, shouting, charging.

He recovered from his bewilderment and ducked away from the crazed woman’s attempted stab.

“Die!” She shouted, “Die! Get out!” She alternated from one to the other as she stabbed and swiped and slashed with the dagger she was clutching. He dodged back, turning this way or that to avoid her, fighting the desire he felt to cut at her with his blade and be done with it.

 _She is not in formation. It is not the same_.

Finally, he dodged slightly too slowly, and she managed to take him in the chest. But it was just another tear in his surcoat. “It’s fruitless, woman. You cannot pierce my plate.”

She roared at him and slashed again, but then the woman in the sleeping furs wailed, high and pained, and she turned away from him.

Taking the opportunity provided by her inattention, he struck her harshly in the stomach with the hilt of his sword, and then, when she doubled over in pain, dropped his sword and wrestled her to the ground. He kicked his blade away, and caught the wrist of the hand that held her dagger.

“Let me go, damn you!” she spat, growling, kicking at him pointlessly.

“Quiet, _woman_ ,” He snarled, making the word a curse. He tightened his grip until she yelped in pain and released the dagger. Then, “What is the matter with the other one? Is she dying?”

“It’s coming,” she said, pained and breathless, “the _babe_.”

He held her tightly, and looked up to the woman lying feet away as it all became clear to him. The other woman was panting through clenched teeth, and he saw that the furs beneath her were stained red and brown with blood, almost black.

He turned back to the woman beneath him.

Richard frowned, though he knew she could not see it through his helm.

“Do not run,” he said firmly.

She stared at him with wide, uncomprehending blue eyes. “What?” she asked.

“Do not run, and I will let you return to her.”

One dead woman was enough for him.

She nodded, panting, and he let go of her. She scrambled back to her companion, staring at him warily the whole way.

Richard returned to his feet, reclaimed his sword from whence he had kicked it, and snatched up her dagger as well.

Outside, he heard screaming… and shouting… and the clatter of steel.

Inside, the pants and grunts and wails of a woman bringing forth life.

He longed to return to the battle, to the bloodshed, but he didn’t.

“The horn,” he said. “What is it?”

The blonde woman, the one he had fought, looked up to him from her ministrations. She looked back down to the other woman. “The Horn of Joramun,” she answered through gritted teeth. “We would have blown down that wall of yours with it.”

Richard snorted. “No longer.”

It was a fair enough prize, then.

Richard stayed, ignoring the pull of battle as best he could. There would be more battles to be had, after all. They were no longer waiting for the end on Dragonstone, and he would not have the murders of these women on his head.

Gradually, the music of battle faded, and were replaced by the high wailing shrieks of an infant’s first moments, and the gasps of a woman’s last. Then, the sobs of another.


	19. Chapter XIX: Rather Too Many Kings

_Chapter XIX: Rather Too Many Kings I_

 

**_Stannis_ **

 

As with many things in life, Stannis felt ambivalent regarding the castellan of Castle Black.

 

He was not the  _worst_ man Stannis had ever met, but he was not one whose company he enjoyed. Still, he was for all intents the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch until they at last managed to choose a new one, so Stannis grit his teeth and talked to the round, red man. The castellan had held Castle Black against an army many times his number, at the very least, and many better men could not lay claim to such a feat.

 

_The Wall deserves the lion’s share of the credit_.

 

Sitting behind the desk that Bowen Marsh had offered him, in the solar that the man himself had used only days prior, Stannis almost snorted at the thought.

 

“And what of Ser Denys Mallister?” He asked.

 

Bowen Marsh smiled at that. “He is on his way already, sire. He might be here tomorrow if they encountered no trouble on the road.” Marsh coughed into a black sleeve. “Were it not for Jon Snow returning when he did, we might have sent all of our fighting men to the Shadow Tower. The gate may very well have fallen by the time you landed at Eastwatch.”

 

“ _We_?” Stannis intoned. “You are the castellan, it was by your order the men would have stayed or gone.”

 

Bowen Marsh purpled slightly, but bowed his head sheepishly. “ _I_ sent some fifty men to aid him, when we heard that the Weeper was gathering his strength near the Bridge of Skulls. We did not hear of him again until just some days ago, perhaps a week… time does pass oddly during a siege…” At Stannis’s stare, he continued, “Some worried that the Shadow Tower itself had fallen; we were glad to hear it had not.”

 

“And the choosing?”

 

The purple in the steward’s face cooled. “The choosing will be held the moment Ser Denys arrives. He will cast the lots for the Shadow Tower men, and Pyke will cast for the Eastwatch men. Those few that did not form your van, I should say.” He laughed politely.

 

“The sooner a new Lord Commander can be chosen, the better,” Stannis replied gruffly. Then after a moment, he added, “The boy, Snow, I would hear of him.”

 

“Hear of him, sire?”

 

Was the man a dullard?

 

“I would know the late Lord Stark’s bastard,” he all but barked. “What is his character? What has he done? You say he played a role in your defense, so  _who_  is Jon Snow?”

 

What followed was a meandering tale, a tale of a bastard boy come for the Wall expecting glamour but receiving the gutter. A tale of accusations and accomplishments. A tale of strangeness and superstitions. There was much to Jon Snow that spoke the goodness of him, but there were aspects that worried Stannis as well; there was much for him to ponder.

 

Marsh had taken a seat early in his recounting of Jon Snow’s personal histories, and then risen after the end of it. But he did not leave the solar.

 

“Is there anything else, Lord Steward?” Stannis asked the man standing before him, his tone questioning.

 

Flustered, Marsh nodded furiously. “T-There is, Your Grace.”

 

“What is it, then?”

 

Lord Marsh stroked a stubbly chin, as if contemplating the proper words to use.

 

Stannis’s eyes narrowed, and he felt a frown form.

 

“Your Grace!” the man said in assurance, his hands outstretched placatingly. “It is… simply a strange matter.”

 

“Men that do not die are a strange matter,” Stannis replied, grinding his teeth. “Children’s tales come alive are a strange matter. Whatever you might say will not be so  _strange_  as what lurks beyond your wall. Say what you will.”

 

Marsh puffed up, seeming to grow even rounder, somehow. “Your Grace, have you perchance seen a man with blue hair, about? Roaming the yard, or in the common hall?”

 

After near a month aboard the  _Valyrian,_ Stannis was altogether tired of Essosi men and their extravagances. Stannis’s lips curled. “Only at a distance, what of him?”

 

“His name is Griff, Sire.” Marsh paused thoughtfully. “Though, it is possible that you saw his son, the Young Griff, he is called.”

 

Stannis almost growled. “What do I care of this man  _or_  his son, Lord Steward?”

 

“He is a former sellsword, or so he tells it… He thinks us all fools.” Marsh laughed, “But there is more to the man, that much is plain.” The Lord Steward held his gaze for a moment. “He has offered us the Golden Company.”

 

Stannis could do little but stare for longer than he thought appropriate, teeth gritted and eyes wide. “The Night’s Watch? He’s offered the Night’s Watch the Golden Company? How?” He finally said.

 

“Before the Great Ranging, Lord Commander Mormont sent Ser Alliser Thorne south to King’s Landing with a wight’s still-moving hand, to beg the Iron Throne for aid.” Stannis noted that Marsh did not mention the king. “During his voyage, the ship was waylaid in Braavos by a storm. There, this... Griff heard of our plight, and sought to call the Golden Company to our aid.”

 

“And they would not come?”

 

Marsh shook his head. “As Griff tells it, he sent many letters over many months, and still they refused him, despite whatever… debts, they owe him. He came to the Wall in pursuit of greater proof as to our need, but as you saw, Your Grace, the Watch was not at liberty to send out ranging parties.”

 

Had the Golden Company come when this Griff would have had them, there would not have been a wildling army to break. His own paltry force had been more than capable of setting Mance Rayder’s ragtag host to flight, what slaughter might ten thousand of the finest swords have wrought?

 

“Does Griff intend to call them even now?”

 

“I would believe so, Your Grace. It was the threat of the… Others, that brought him here, not the Wildlings. And the Others remain hidden still.”

 

Stannis grunted. He would need to speak with this Griff as soon as could be arranged… and with Bowen Marsh already here… Stannis looked up to the steward, and ground his teeth. As Stannis fought the instincts that he had honed through a lifetime of condescension and struggled niceties, the high voice of his daughter pierced his thoughts.

 

_“I think you could be nicer, father,” she said, “Everyone loved Renly, and he was always nice.”_

 

In that moment, Stannis had very nearly told her of the cruel and slanderous rumors that Renly had given voice to outside Storm’s End during their ill-fated parley. Stannis would have gutted him then, would have stained his holy blade’s steel with his royal brother’s blood. The very brother that he would have made his heir. The brother that he had starved with; seen grow skeletal as they wished and yearned for Robert to rescue them,  waited with to see those golden banners scatter those roses like so many petals.

 

But he had swallowed his words then, for as little regard as he paid to obfuscating the truth, he had not wished to see tears spring to Shireen’s bold blue eyes. She had cried enough, in her youth. He had not wished to be another cause.

 

So he had let her continue. Let her lecture him on kings that he knew better than she.  _“Maegor was harsh, and strong, and so no one would tell him what he truly needed to hear. His lords, they should have been his friends, but they didn’t want to see him succeed,” she rambled, “but Jaehaerys, and… and Uncle Robert too, they were nice, and their lords loved them, they would have done anything for them.”_

 

_“His lords, maybe,” he wanted to say, “but not his wife. Aenys too was kind. And Baelor the Blessed was gracious. Their lords ran rampant over them, controlled them, begged for favors and concessions and flaunted their disloyalty. Many and more loved Daemon Blackfyre, and died for him too, but a rebel and traitor he was still.”_

 

But instead of any of that, he had said simply.  _“You read your books, and think to lecture me? I am not Devan, nor am I your fool.”_

 

She had looked up to him unsteadily, and said,  _“I know, father, but_ I  _want you to succeed.”_

 

So as he stared across at the red-faced visage of Bowen Marsh, Stannis took a slightly different course than was his standard. “My Lord Steward, if you should… chance upon this Griff, and send him to me, then I shall see to the Golden Company.” Then, for good measure,  “Neither the Wall nor the crown shall forget the services you have rendered.”

 

The pomegranate seemed to grow three sizes in a heartbeat. He smiled, and the traces of affront finally departed his almost froglike countenance. “O-Of course, Your Grace! If the Golden Company can be brought into the fold… I feel it would enrich  _both_  of our causes.” He bowed lower than his belly should have allowed. “Is there anything else then, sire?”

 

Stannis thought on it a moment “There is, Lord Marsh. If the Watch could spare its blacksmith for a time, I would have words with the man who forged my first sword.”

 

The castellan bobbed his head knowingly, and retreated from the room with a somehow even deeper bow.

 

_Let him think it a nostalgic reunion,_  he thought with a low laugh.

 

“Bryen,” he called after a time, “fetch me Lady Melisandre. Devan, some lemon water.” Both were waiting beyond the door to his solar, he knew, and both would see to their tasks with haste.

 

As he waited, Stannis withdrew the plain oaken box that rested beneath the roughhewn desk that had once been the late Lord Commander Mormont’s. Inside it rested the crown his wife had so thoughtfully gifted him with. He undid the cool metal clasp and gazed at the golden waste that sat atop a slim cushion; Selyse had wanted a more extravagant casing for his crown, but he had refused. If his crown was to be wrought entirely in gold, then what held it would be crafted more conservatively.

 

Stannis lifted the crown. He had hated it, at first. He had intended to wear a crown only when he had assumed his rightful throne, and like as not, it would have been Robert’s crown. There would have been no need to waste more of the royal treasury on vanity when Robert had accumulated debts as large as he had, and he had never possessed Renly’s foppish tastes besides.

 

And then... his wife had fashioned him a crown in the likeness of flames, and set him apart from near every man, woman, and child in Westeros, as well as from every king to come before him in one fell stroke. He had ground his teeth most mightily.

 

_“You should wear your crown more often,” Shireen offered, tracing the fiery points of his crown. “When the mummers want to play a role, they wear the right costume, don’t they? And then everyone knows what they are.”_

 

_“And now I’m a mummer, am I?” he remarked._

 

It was his crown, and he was king.

 

He placed it upon his head.

 

-

 

Melisandre sat near the hearth, gazing into the flames with her hands clasped and resting between her legs. The ruby at her throat glittered and danced in the fire.

 

Rather than hanging from the peg to the side of the hearth, Lightbringer’s scabbard rested across the map of the North that Stannis had unfurled across his desk.

 

His cup of lemon water, long empty, sat inches away from Lightbringer’s hilt.

 

“Your Grace?” came Bryen’s voice from the other side of the door.

 

Melisandre turned away from the fire, and caught his own gaze. Shining red eyes met his blues. She nodded.

 

“Send him in,” ordered Stannis.

 

The first thing that struck him as the door creaked open and the “sellsword” called Griff entered the room, was the man’s dyed blue hair. He had seen such habits from the many men of Salladhor Saan’s fleet, as well as from his decade as Master of Ships, but even now, it struck him as needlessly flamboyant; a waste of dye, in his mind. His hair was long, longer than most men tended to let it grow, but not near as long as others, and even the man’s thick beard and brows were dyed blue.

 

Second, was the man’s build. He was tall, though Stannis still overtopped him by five inches or near as much, but he was broad where Stannis was sinewy.  Griff was broad in the same way Robert had been in his prime. Muscular, with thick arms and a hard chest evident even through layers of dark wool and furs. A warrior’s build if there ever was one.

 

Pale blue eyes regarded him with cold wariness, and his jaw was set firm. He was about Stannis’s age, he wagered or some years older.

 

“Your Grace,” the man said with some effort. The accompanying bow was a proper one, if shallow. “How might I serve the man who saved the Wall?”

 

Stannis frowned lightly. “If you think to ingratiate yourself to me with flattery, then you think wrongly. I am not a man for idle flattery.”

 

Griff stilled, and a grimace appeared on his face for an instant, before vanishing in the time it took Stannis to blink.

 

“Please, sit,” Melisandre said, indicating to the empty chair opposite Stannis. She stood now, but hovered near the fire still, appearing for all the world a spirit sprung from flame. Her ruby, her eyes, even her hair that was so like beaten copper, shone in the firelight.

 

Griff sat carefully, not relaxing in the slightest. Stannis had seen the same countenance on deer and boars during Robert’s hunts (those few that Robert had commanded him to take part in). The man was ready to move, and move quickly. He noted that his guards had done their duty, and removed any weaponry from him, it seemed.

 

“I trust that you know why I have demanded your presence?” Stannis asked.

 

A look of practiced confusion flashed into existence on the sellsword’s face. “I do, Your Grace?”

 

“You do,” Melisandre intoned, drawing Griff’s eyes away.

 

“I want the Golden Company.”

 

Griff jerked in his seat, but mastered himself with remarkable rapidity. He chewed on his words.

 

Melisandre offered her voice again. “You are Westerosi, no?”

 

That, the blue haired man could answer. “I am…” he said unsteadily.

 

Stannis grunted. “Bowen Marsh had told me of your connections, of your promises to the Watch.” He eyed the sellsword. “I care little for how some  _Westerosi exile_  can command such service from the greatest free company in Essos, but I will not allow such a chance to slip through my fingers.” He stared at him hard. “I saved your life here, sellsword. Soon or late, Mance Rayder would have crushed the Watch’s resistance, and killed every last one of you if you were foolish enough to stay.”

 

Griff bristled. “I did not mean to call the Golden Company to the Wall to fight  _your_ war with the Lannisters,” he all but spat, maintaining only the smallest amount of respect in his tone. “If Bowen Marsh told you everything, then you would know it was to fight the Others, and their army of the dead.”

 

Stannis stood, rising to his full height. “It is the same war,” Stannis growled before slamming back down in his seat. They glared at each other.

 

Melisandre spoke, then. “This war is the War for the Dawn,” she said solemnly, “It is the war for life, and warmth and light. We fight against demons. We fight against death itself.”

 

Griff appeared unmoved; his shoulders were tense, and his large hands were balled into fists in his lap. “You mean to fight the Lannisters, and their Bolton toadies. Do not take me for a fool,  _Your Grace_.”

 

Stannis did not rise to the man’s bait, for he knew his sort all too well. “Lord Marsh tells me that you have been on the Wall for some time. Is there truth in this?”

 

“There is,” said Griff.

 

“Then tell me, Griff, how might the Wall provide for ten thousand men, and their horses?”

 

Griff glowered. “It cannot.”

 

“Aye,” Stannis continued, “it cannot.” Stannis stood again, retrieving Lightbringer from where it lay on the great map, and held it in his left hand. With his right, he traced the smooth parchment. “The Gift and New Gift are all but empty. They are unpeopled. The Watch can scarce sustain  _itself_ , let alone an army.” He found Last Hearth, and Karhold. Winterfell and Deepwood Motte and Moat Cailin. “But the North can. And the North is held by the traitor Bolton.”

 

Griff’s mouth was a thin line. “The Golden Company would not fight for you.”

 

Stannis barked a low, spiteful laugh. “And why not? What ills have I done the Golden Company?” When no answer was forthcoming, he persisted, “The Golden Company fought the Targaryens four times, and four times were they defeated. Now, the Blackfyres are dead.”

 

“Your house-”

 

“ _-my house_  put down their greatest enemy. They ought to put away their black dragons and fly the black stag instead, if anything.”  Stannis laughed again, even more harshly this time. “I care not for their love, sellsword. The South will never love me, and mayhaps the North never will either.” He thought of Renly.  “Old men deny me with their death rattle, and unborn babes from their mother’s wombs, or so I am told.” An old pain that had never healed rang in his chest, and he laughed again. “I do not yearn for their love. I am king, and these seven kingdoms are mine. I mean to save them.” His eyes met Griff’s. “First from the Others, and then from themselves.”

 

Melisandre’s musical laugh rang out then. “Many in the south betrayed their true king. Many do not deserve their lands any longer.”

 

“Why remain exiles, when home is open to them?” Stannis asked, sweeping his hand lower across the map, to the Neck. “I reward leal service, and I pay my debts.”

 

The sellsword looked down, pensive. “I can guarantee nothing. I came to the Wall only to acquire proof, something…  _anything_  to demonstrate the danger here. I ask  _you_ , Your Grace, did you believe these tales of Others and wights when first they met your ear?”

 

Stannis frowned. “I did not. I thought Others a story, like grumkins, or snarks.”

 

“Or giants,” Melisandre offered.

 

“Aye,” Griff said, “or giants.” He crossed his arms. “The wildlings are not enough. I thought to capture a wight, or part of one, if possible, for it was… the sight of a still moving hand that turned my attentions here in the first place.” He snorted. “And then to hear the reports from the men who survived the Fist... it was beyond my fears.”

 

The army of the dead. Stannis had heard much of it. First, he had had only Melisandre’s visions and prophecies, but here, it had become a reality. Of the hundreds that had left, only a dozen-odd men had returned, the bulk of the remainder slain and enlisted in the Others’ unholy host.

 

“This is the only war that matters, and I require the Golden Company if I am to win it.”

 

Griff sat quietly, and Stannis too returned to his seat, laying Lightbringer across his knees. Melisandre turned to the fire again, bathing herself yet further in oranges and yellows and reds.

 

“Have you ever stared into the flames, and seen the End, Griff?” Melisandre asked suddenly.

 

The exile looked befuddled. “I have not, my lady. You will be dismayed to learn that I still hold to my father’s gods.”

 

“Come,” she said, indicating the space to her left. “I can show you.”

 

The man did not move, at first, but something seemed to stir in him. A light came to his eyes, and he stood. He approached the red priestess with several long strides. “What do I do?”

 

“Nothing,” Meliandre murmured. “You do nothing. It is R’hllor that sees. Through the Lord, anything is possible.” She took his hand delicately, yet still the sellsword almost jerked away. “Patience,” she said, “you will see.”

 

Stannis watched the man’s face, idly wondering if he too had appeared so skeptical, when first Melisandre came to him.

 

Then, Griff’s blue eyes widened…

 

...and his face caught the light just so…

 

And then Stannis was half a boy, watching a young man–

 

_It was sunny, streams of light weaving their way down through the leaves. It was beautiful, and yet it stank. Stannis hated the smell. It was nothing at all like Storm’s End, where he could always smell the sea and feel the fresh whip of the wind, even inside the great curtain wall._

 

_It was King’s Landing, and it was a disappointment; nothing at all like his father had said._

 

_“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, cousin?” Long, silver hair fell down a shoulder in an artfully tied braid. Mournful violet eyes looked to him for a response. He was pretty. Prettier than a man ought to be. Almost as pretty as mother._

 

_Stannis shrugged. “I can still smell the city,” he said with a frown and a scrunched up nose. “And it looks much the same as our Godswood.”_

 

_“Your little cousin is rather insolent, isn’t he?” the other man said, provoking a low, delicate laugh from his cousin._

 

_It was the dragon’s shadow. Tall and broad, even then. A handsome youth, with piercing blue eyes and hair the color of a good carrot. He wore it loose, the bottom of his hair tickling the fledgling stubble on his strong jaw. Two griffins stood combatant on his silk doublet, red and white on fields of the opposite._

 

_“He is not so gregarious as Robert, I agree,” his cousin had said, before turning a slight smile to Stannis. “But he is right…” He somehow made wrinkling his nose appear elegant. “... I will never grow accustomed to this city’s smell.”_

 

_The other barked a laugh. “The scent is not so fine as the Stormlands, aye.”_

 

–Then the sellsword was recoiling from the fire, breathless, and Stannis found himself aged.

 

Pale blue eyes darted from fire, to map, to priestess, to king. “...I- I must think on all of this, Your Grace.”

 

“Very well,” Stannis said with a nod, seeing now the red at the roots of the sellsword’s brows. “But do not tarry long.”

 

The bow the dead man sketched was more formal than his first, and his departure more abrupt than his entrance.

 

Stannis watched Jon Connington go, confusion and suspicion warring and roiling in his chest.  _More to the man, indeed._

 

“My lady,” he said, with steel in his voice, “ensure that neither that man nor any of his party leave Castle Black.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

* * *

 

**_Samwell_ **

 

“It’s cold,” Sam grumbled.

 

Sam was cold, and he was tired of it.

 

“North of the Wall is worse,” Gilly replied as she bounced the babe in her arms. “I don’t think this is so bad.”

 

He was sick of being cold, truly. He had been cold ever since they left Castle Black so long ago, he thought. Whitetree, Craster’s, the Fist… It had all been so cold, and he just wanted to be warm again.

 

The Wall loomed high to their left, glittering blue in the midday light. They had been walking for some time, and by Sam’s estimation, they couldn’t be more than a day or two away from Castle Black. Every now and again, the babe would cry, and Gilly would bare a breast to feed him. Sam had to force himself to turn away, else he would fall on his face.

 

Sam shivered. “It’s cold to me.”

 

Step. Step. Step.

 

He had been walking for so long. He was tired of walking too.

 

And he was worried.

 

Very worried.

 

They were going to Castle Black, but Sam didn’t even know if there was a Castle Black to go back  _to_. Mance had marched on the Wall, and he had thousands of men, and so few had survived the Fist… If Mance’s army won, then all of his friends were dead. Pyp, and Grenn, and Toad, and Matthar…

 

_And Jon._

 

And then he would be dead too. He was a crow to them; an enemy. They would kill him in half a heartbeat. He couldn’t fight off a single man, let alone an army of them. Grenn had called him Sam the Slayer… but it had been the dagger that killed it. The dragonglass, not  _him_.

 

But…  _At least Gilly and the babe would be safe. She’s a wildling, like them. They wouldn’t hurt a babe and its mother._

 

Gilly said she would protect him, if it came to it, but he wouldn’t let her. She was strong, but not strong enough for that. If he could save her by running away, he would. There was courage in that, wasn’t there?

 

The babe made a little gurgling noise, and knocked Sam out of his thoughts. He turned, looking at his pudgy face as Gilly rocked him around.

 

Gilly looked up at him and smiled. “See? He doesn’t think it’s cold either.”

 

“Gilly…” he began, but then a far off noise caught his attention. “Gilly, what is that?”

 

She looked around to, recognition flaring in her eyes when she caught it. “It’s there!” she said. “West!”

 

Sam squinted down the long trail the Night’s Watch used to travel between their castles. Then, in a rush, he realized he knew the source of the sound. “Horses! It’s horses!” And it was true, soon, he could see them. For a moment, he thought to hide… but surely they would see the tracks they had made. If it was wildlings, then he was a walking dead man. He shivered, thinking of Small Paul suddenly. “We should stay on the road.”

 

“You want to meet them?” Gilly asked, apprehension readily apparent in her eyes and tone.

 

“Yes,” Sam replied. “If it’s Night’s Watch, then they can take us with them. If it’s not… then they could take you, at least.”

 

Gilly frowned, and came close to him, and they waited.

 

When the horsemen finally drew close enough for him to pick out the colors that they wore, Sam nearly cried tears of joy. They wore black from head to heel. Then, within what felt like mere seconds, the men were upon them.

 

Horses thundered up the road, whickering and snorting and pounding the muddy earth. Men stared suspiciously at them from under black hoods. The babe began to cry.

 

“You are Night’s Watch?” one asked, over the babe’s cries and Gilly’s protests.

 

“I-I-I am..” Sam said, feeling himself shrink into his own body.

 

“Who?” asked another one. “And from where?”

 

“S-S-Samwell Tarley. I-I was on the ranging… and w-w-we got lost.”

 

One of them laughed. “A likely tale. I know wildlings when I see them.” He pointed a finger as if it were a dagger at Gilly and the babe. “Any man can steal the clothes off a corpse.”

 

“Though I’ve never seen a wildling so  _fat_ ,” said another.

 

Then, a man on a bigger, finer horse cut through the assembled brothers. His cloak was black sable, where the others’ were only dyed wool. His clothes were finer too, and Sam saw an eagle wrought in silver clasping his cloak together.

 

“That’s quite enough, men.” The man drew back his hood, revealing a wizened old face. He was bald, with a great white beard, and a face so deeply lined, Sam was shocked that he sat as tall as he did while mounted. Grey-blue eyes looked down at him kindly. “This boy is Samwell Tarly, I know his face.”

 

“H-H-How?” Sam stuttered.

 

“You have your grandfather’s look,” said the man that could only be Ser Denys Mallister.

 

Gilly raised her voice. “Which grandfather?”

 

Ser Denys laughed at that. “Both of them, I should say.”

 

In short order, Ser Denys had brought up spare horses for the both of them. He begged that Sam tell him of his escape from the Fist, as well as all that had occurred since. Sam left out how Coldhands had saved their lives, and definitely didn’t mention anything that happened at the Nightfort, but he talked about Craster’s, and the mutiny, and answered every question that Ser Denys asked him.

 

He even graciously asked Gilly a question or two, though Sam could see the discomfort on both of their faces.

 

Then Ser Denys was telling him of everything that had happened on  _this_  side of the Wall. Of the feints, the attacks on the Wall, and, most surprising of all, the arrival of Stannis Baratheon.

 

“And now we go to choose our next Lord Commander,” Ser Denys finished at the end of it all.

 

“Will you put your name forward, Ser Denys?” Sam asked.

 

Mallister pondered it for a moment. “Aye, I do intend to,” he replied, to the cheers of a few of his Shadow Tower men. The Castle Black men were further behind, in a larger clump of riders. “If only to ensure that lout from Eastwatch doesn’t claim the position for himself.”

 

The rivalry between Ser Denys Mallister and Cotter Pyke was the subject of many a drunken supper at Castle Black. His brothers claimed that the Old Bear (or was it Qorgyle?) had sent them as far away from each other as he could, to contain their bickering and limit their butting of heads. It seemed to ring true, to Sam.

 

After that, there was quiet for a time.

 

Sam had been right, they were only a short ride from Castle Black; they would reach it within the day. So, as they rode, Sam rejoiced, thinking of the brothers he would get to see again soon. Of Grenn, and Pyp, and Halder, and Toad, and Matthar. And if Bran had been right, then Jon too. The sounds of horse filled his ears, while thoughts of friends filled his head.

 

But then, after a long quiet, Sam noticed something strange bobbing to the hoofbeat of Ser Denys’s horse. It was a sack, tied to the side of his saddle.

 

“Ser Denys?” Sam asked when they stopped to provide the horses water.

 

“Yes?”

 

“What is that?”

 

“What is what?” Ser Denys retorted quizzically.

 

“That,” Sam replied, pointing to the sack. The bottom of the sack was a darker color than the rest of it, almost as if someone had spilled wine into it… Or blood…

 

“Oh, that.” Ser Denys chuckled. He reached for the sack and untied its knot quickly. He reached in, and when he withdrew his hand, it held a fistful of stringy blond hair. Wet, vacant eyes stared out at Sam, and the man’s neck was a red ruin. “This, my lord of Tarly, is the Weeper.”

 

Sam retched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I took so long. It was a rough Summer for me, and writing was just really damn hard.
> 
> This isn't all of chapter nineteen, but I thought you guys deserved a new chapter. So here's about half of it (:


	20. Interlude: A Snow Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow remembers snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't a full, "real" chapter, but I started teaching this last week, and so my energy has been kinda in the toilet. I wrote this a couple months back, for an art trade, and I hope you all enjoy. It is canon to the story though, and it will be relevant very soon.

 

 

_Interlude: A Snow Soldier_

Jon had many memories of his father.

Eddard Stark was everything he had ever wanted to be. The model lord. The model man. For as far back as his memories went, he had idolized him, craved his attention. Until the sad realities of life were forced onto him, he had lived a good enough life, mother or no.

One memory of those early times, before the way of the world became evident to him, stood out particularly in the reaches of his memory.

It was summer, early in the long summer. Spring had only been gone a year or two, and winter was never far in the North.  Balon Greyjoy’s Rebellion had been quashed, and Eddard Stark was returned to his home, last scion of House Greyjoy in tow.

Greyjoy had been slow to acclimate to the North. He had complained of everything then, even more than he did when he grew. It’s too cold, it’s too windy, I thought it was summer, why is it snowing? And so on. His complaints were endless.

It was amidst one such summer snow that Jon had ventured into the Godswood.

He was about six, he supposed. Or seven. Robb was the same. Sansa was toddling about and asking questions near as endless as Greyjoy’s gripes, and had not yet had the wolf tamed out of her, while Arya was still on Lady Stark’s breast. Bran and Rickon were yet twinkles in his father’s eye.

Jon had wanted to play in the snow, but the snow was awfully dirty out in the courtyard. Lady Stark hated it when he got dirty, and he didn’t like to bother the maids with helping him clean up besides, so he had gone to the Godswood. The snow was pristine there, since so few intruded on the wood’s tranquil grace. Besides Lord Stark, at least.

Jon was hard at work building a snow soldier when he felt a thwap on the back of his head.

He almost shouted in shock, but managed to clamp down on the reflex, when he turned, he saw that it was Robb. Robb holding a stick threateningly.

Jon growled and ran off to find his own stick, which was not hard in the Godswood. “I’m coming for you Robb!” he yelled, “I’m gonna knock you silly!”

“Try it and I’ll beat you bloody!” Robb shouted back.

He found a nice long stick. It was strong too, perfect for hitting uppity brothers. He rushed back to his half-built snow soldier and saw that his rival was gone. He was hiding.

“I’m Aemon the Dragonknight!” He called.

“Then I’m Florian the Fool!”

Ha! Robb was so stupid. He chased after the source of the voice, and when he saw him hiding behind a particularly thick tree, managed to sneak up on him and whack him on the back of his head.

Robb didn’t hold back his shout like Jon did, Robb was a scaredy-cat. But Jon didn’t let him get away so whacked at him again.

It was a fierce battle that followed. Strikes and counter strikes and smacks across the face and shouts of “No fair!” and “Your stick is longer!” When sticks broke, the victor with the still-whole stick could score a few extra hits before the loser managed to find a new weapon. The fighting was savage and the laughs copious.

Naturally, it was at about that time that little Sansa bumbled into the Godswood holding a maid’s hand. Doubtless, she had been lured to the wood by the noise. The maid was all too glad to pass on the responsibility of dealing with the inquisitive child, and so it became the domain of her older brothers.

“I wanna fight,” she said.

“No you don’t,” Robb said, brandishing his stick. “You’re a girl, go do girl things.”

Sansa stomped her foot. “I wanna fight,” she shouted in her squeaky little voice.

Robb glanced to Jon.

“If we fight her we have to go easy on her,” Jon said. “that’s no fun at all.”

Robb frowned. “Well, let’s give her the biggest stick. So it’s more fair.” He crouched low to reach Sansa’s eye level, “Go find the biggest stick you can Sansa!”

Nodding excitedly, she quickly ran off to do just that.

This bought them another minute or two of one-on-one fighting, but before they knew it the auburn haired demon had returned with what had to be the biggest stick she could carry. It was about as long as she was tall, but thin.

The battle that ensued was less exciting, but there were just as many laughs. It was Robb and Jon both against Sansa, at least at first. They let her attack the most, and only tapped her lightly with their own sticks. She yelled ferociously all the same.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Robb asked her when she ‘knocked him to the ground’.

She paused thoughtfully as Robb returned to his feet. “I’m the king!”

At which point Robb had an idea and said “And I’m Eddard Stark.”

Jon was even smarter than Robb, so he knew what to say instantly. “Then I’m Rhaegar Targaryen!”

That battle was more even, and Sansa even got a few honest hits in on Jon, but Jon didn’t care. It was fun.

Their alliances and identities shifted with the wind. They became the Young Dragon and Ser Ryam Redwyne, or Symeon Star-Eyes and the Laughing Storm. But no matter who they were, Sansa would always say “I’m the king!”

They were forced to assume she played at different kings.

It was in the midst of battle that father revealed himself in the Godswood.

He had seemed a giant to Jon in those days, though Jon knew him to be of only middling height later in life. His beard was trimmed low and his hair tied up for reasons of practicality. Theon was beside him, not so tall, but still towering over Sansa, Robb, and Jon. He held Ice’s great scabbard, despite it being easily taller than himself. In spite of looking positively silly, he smirked at them. He always smirked.

“What’s all this then?” Father asked as he walked up to them.

Sansa beamed at him. “We’re fighting!”

Father laughed, long and low. “Septa Mordane won’t like that, Sansa. Little ladies don’t play swords.”

She made a face. “Septa Mordane later, ‘m playing swords right now.”

Chuckling, he mussed up her thick auburn hair. But then he turned on Jon and Robb, and his face was ice. The Lord’s face, not Father’s. “And you two. What are you thinking hurting your little sister like that?” 

Jon felt his heart drop and he began to babble excuses right along with Robb. 

“I wasn’t hitting hard, it was all Robb!” 

“Jon attacked her first!” 

“We switched sides!” 

“We let her have the biggest stick!” 

“We were just playing!” 

“She’s laughing, look!” 

But father could not keep it up, and he began to laugh at their panic. They began to laugh with him, relishing in the loss of a presumed punishment. He indicated to the barely-started snow soldier. “What do you think this is, eh Theon?” 

Greyjoy strode forward confidently, even as the immense scabbard all but dragged on the ground. He gave it a hard look. “I’m not sure, Lord Stark. Whatever it is, it’s in right poor condition.” He shot them a cocky sneer. 

Jon felt himself frown. “It’s a snow soldier, I didn’t get to finish it.” He pointed at Robb. “Robb attacked me, and I had to defend my honor!” 

“What honor, bas–” 

“Theon.” Father’s tone was cold. 

For once, Greyjoy looked contrite. He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Lord Stark.” 

Father gave Greyjoy a long look, and then gestured toward the center of the Godswood. “Take Ice to the Heart Tree, and then come right back, Theon.” 

“Of course, my lord.” He marched off with as much grace as he could muster while carrying the huge scabbard. 

“Now, you three. How about we finish this snow soldier?” 

Sansa immediately threw herself into action, gathering up snow as best she could. Obviously, it was almost fruitless. 

Jon had only had time to gather stones and particular bits of wood for the snow soldier’s facial features and body parts, and then begin rolling the first big ball segment when Robb had attacked him.

 “I think we can make this bigger,” Father said, taking the big ball of snow and rolling it to increase its size even further. “You two work on the middle part.” 

Jon quickly rolled up a decently sized snow ball, and when it became big enough that it was harder to push, he handed it off to Robb. Then he went and knelt to Sansa.

“Sansa, do you need help making the head?” he asked. 

“No!” She said. “I can do it myself.” 

She couldn’t. She wasn’t compacting the snow well enough, and so it just kept falling apart. “Sansa, you have to roll it tighter, or it’s going to keep breaking.” 

“Nuh-uh,” she retorted. She then followed his instructions anyway, and to his total lack of surprise, managed to start making it. 

By that point, Greyjoy had returned and was standing away from the lot of them with his arms crossed and a haughty look on his face. 

“Theon, take Robb’s snowball and put it on top,” Father said. 

Greyjoy complied quickly, seizing the now larger snowball from the all too proud Robb (I started that one, Jon thought) and lifting it up with relative ease. He smashed it onto the bigger snowball, denting its shape somewhat, but it stayed together. “Looks good, I think,” he said. 

Father called Sansa, who now had created something approaching decent for a snow man’s head, who paraded it back to him proudly, snowball in hand. “Do you want to put it on top?” he asked. 

She looked at the snowball, and her little face scrunched up. “I’m too small,” she said. 

Then, taking her by complete surprise, father lifted her up high enough so that she could slam the head right on top of the middle snowball, and she squealed with joy. After, he threw her up in the air and caught her again before setting her down. She giggled fiercely. “Again!” she said. 

Robb cut in. “No Sansa, we have to finish the snow soldier!” 

It was a much quicker affair after the main body of the snowman was put together. Greyjoy went looking for some better sticks for arms, as the original arm sticks had been broken in their duels. Robb, Jon, and Sansa ran about the Godswood gathering every stone they could find, before putting them all over the snow soldier’s body as a crude scale armor. Father drew a face onto the snow soldier’s head, and found a particularly bulbous rock to use as its nose. Theon returned with two long sticks. 

“That one’s perfect!” Robb pointed to one of the two sticks and grinned toothily, “It looks just like an arm holding a sword.” 

It did look pretty good, Jon had to admit. But he could have found that stick just fine too. 

“Of course it does,” Theon replied, “I’m good at finding things.” He jabbed both of the sticks into the sides of the snow soldier. 

And with that, the snow soldier was complete. 

They stood back to admire the man of snow and stone and stick. 

“He’s fearsome,” father said. 

Sansa nodded emphatically. 

“We should make certain he doesn’t fall apart,” Robb said, “so he can guard the Godswood for us.” 

Father barked a laugh. “Indeed we shall. None shall come to this Godswood without first passing the mighty Stark snow soldier.” Then he knelt and scooped Sansa back up again. She shrieked gleefully. “Come, boys.” 

All three of them followed after him, through ironwood trees and oaks and soldier pines as a sprinkling of snow fell around them. The Godswood was beautiful when it snowed like this, or at least Jon thought it was. He led them around the pools of water at the wood’s center, and to the great gaping gaze of the heart tree. 

He had been scared of it, but he liked it now, he thought. It was still scary, but it was formidable as well, and formidable is a good thing to be. 

Sansa covered her eyes when she saw it, but when father sat in front of the heart tree, he placed her in his lap so that she would not have to see it. He gestured for each of them to sit near him. 

Robb sat closest to father, and Jon and Theon sat to either side of Robb.

“Shhh,” father said, when they had settled. “Do you hear it?” 

They quieted. Jon could hear the wind rustling the red, hand-like leaves of the heart tree. He could hear the bubble of the water that came from the hot spring. He heard snow overfill a tree branch and fall. He heard the snow shrikes singing. 

Theon frowned. “I just hear a bunch of noises.” 

Father nodded calmly. “Those noises are anything but…” He said. “They are the voices of the Old Gods, the Gods of the North,” father continued. “They whisper to us, wherever we may be. All one must to do to hear them, is listen.” 

“But I’m of the Drowned God,” Theon said, confused. 

Father only smiled at that. “The Old Gods are not jealous Gods, Theon. If you listen, they will speak.” 

Theon hushed. 

Jon closed his eyes. He felt the brisk chill of the air, heard the rustle of every branch and leaf. He heard the breaths of his brother, of his sister, his father, and even his father’s ward. They were pleasant sounds, and pleasant feelings. 

He had felt a Stark then, and not a Snow. 

He was a Stark now, he realized. 

He had always been a Stark, no matter the color of his cloak.


	21. Chapter XIX: Rather Too Many Kings III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon has a bad dinner; Haldon practices medicine; Jon Snow takes a bath

_Chapter XIX: Rather Too Many Kings II_

**_Aegon_ **

Aegon chewed at his lip.

Maester Aemon’s quarters were quite warm, as they usually tended towards. Winter crept ever closer, so it was a welcome change from the increasing chill of the outside. Standing atop the Wall, or even simply outside for too long was rapidly becoming unbearable. It was small wonder that, more and more, men were hiding in the subterranean halls of Castle Black, throughout the wormways, within the forge, or, as a last resort, sparring to keep their blood hot.

That there were now near two thousand additional men at Castle Black did little to combat its growing cold.

His eyes slid to the diminutive form reclining in the soft chair. Wrinkled, bald, and liver spotted, Aemon Targaryen, son of Maekar, was always something of a sorry sight. Yet, seeing him always managed to bring a smile to Aegon’s face. The last dragon besides him, if his aunt had truly died on the Dothrakhi Sea; Aegon treasured him.

“Samwell?” came the creaky voice of his great uncle.

“No,” said Aegon, “it’s Griff.” With so many new ears in the castle, he could not risk using his true name.

A smile broke across Aemon’s thin, almost translucent, skin. “Ah, the Young Griff. Come closer, lad.”

Aegon did so, taking several long strides and coming up close to the old man. He was growing taller still, having already passed Jon some time before. Idly, he wondered when he would finally stop. When he came to his great-great uncle’s (or however it was) side, he suddenly found his tongue twisted, tied up into a knot.

The aged maester frowned. “What is it boy? Is something the matter?”

His eyes were drawn to the fire. He shouldn’t have read so closely, it wasn’t his right… but he had seen the seal, and then he knew he had to. “Will Janos be Lord Commander, do you figure?” he asked at last.

Aemon’s bald eyebrows quirked. “Whatever else he was, he _was_ a lord, Griff; it is wise to use a man’s proper titles.”

“Will he be Lord Commander?” Aegon repeated.

Aemon looked tired. “It is not for a maester to say, lad. The Watch chooses, and the maester serves.”

A frown marred his own face, then, he knew.

 _Lord_ Janos was a fool. The men that Stannis Baratheon brought north had many a tale to tell of the exploits of the former Lord Commander of the Goldcloaks. Bribes, laundering, perhaps even assassinations. And everyone knew it was he that had led to Ned Stark’s demise; this far north, that was not as much a compliment as it had been in the south. He had tried to force the issue of Jon Snow’s “betrayal” as well, and he had led to many more turning on the bastard, despite Marsh’s prior judgments.

Above it all, and worst of all, was that it seemed almost a foregone conclusion to Aegon that Janos would take up the mantle of Lord Commander. Every day that passed, the fat, jowly man inched ever forward in the counts.

At first, Bowen Marsh had kept even with Ser Denys Mallister, with Cotter Pyke trailing behind. Janos Slynt seemed hardly worth mentioning. Jarman Buckwell too had some votes, as did Othyll Yarwyck and a handful of others ( _Dolorous Edd, least of all)_. But every day, men dropped away from the Choosing. Every day, Janos gained a few more votes. And Bowen Marsh slipped most of all, compared to Ser Denys and Cotter Pyke.

He had held Castle Black, and won a victory over Styr and his Thenns; the Watch had not forgotten that. But as each choosing failed to elect a new Lord Commander, it became increasingly clear that it did not erase the man’s prior reputation. _‘Marsh counts spoons!’_ was a popular refrain. Mallister had served longer as a commander, and Pyke was more proven in battle. And Slynt… well…

“Tywin Lannister promises aid to the Watch,” Aegon said, finally.

“You saw?”

“I did.”

There were so few lettered men in the Watch, and Clydas had needed assistance after Haldon’s injury. Samwell Tarly had not yet returned, and so he had helped. He’d seen the lion… and been unable to resist it.

Aemon let out a long-suffering breath. “A Lannister always pays his debts,” he said, before chuckling dryly. “...Once that was not said in fear… or in threat, you know.”

Aegon knew of Lannister’s and their debts all too well. Elia and Rhaenys knew it better still. He felt a rage come into his chest, and his teeth grit hard. “Janos is not fit to be Lord Commander,” he growled. “He is scarce fit to clean the nightsoil.”

“Many a man has found a new life at the Wall,” Aemon said noncommittally. “A man’s crimes are wiped clean, and their slate is made anew. Every man in Westeros knows this, boy.”

Aegon was not naive enough to believe any of it. It was an honorable calling, yes, but men did not change so swiftly. Men who had served on the Wall for years, or decades? Perhaps. Men who had kept to the Wall for mere weeks or months? Never.

Marsh would endorse Slynt, and then others would follow, and a simpering servant of the man who had killed his mother and sister would reign at the Wall. Janos Slynt, as their ally against the Others? It made him want to laugh. The man made jests of the Others, even as men who had fought wights roamed the yard.

“And what of Stannis?” Aegon asked.

“What of him?” Aemon asked.

Aegon made a noise, himself unsure of what exactly he was asking.

A smirk lit up Aemon’s wrinkled face. “He is a harsh man, as I’m sure any here can tell you, but he is here to combat the Others by his own admission.”

That much, Aegon knew for truth. The so-called king’s red priestess had held nightfires every night since Stannis and his army arrived at Castle Black. She preached of demons in ice, and the cold claws of the dead. She told of the Battle for the Dawn, and Stannis Baratheon as Azor Ahai come again. They would fight, that was clear, and it was better than near every other man who’d named himself king these past years.

Part of him burned, truthfully, in knowing that he had not succeeded in rallying the Golden Company to the Wall’s aid, while this latecomer had succeeded so effortlessly.

And now Aegon was all but trapped here.

“Are you keeping to the dye?”

Aegon snorted. “It is more important now than ever,” he replied. Part of him had hoped to let it fade, so that it might be silver by the time he brought evidence to the Golden Company, but Stannis’s arrival had dashed those hopes. Bowen Marsh had let slip their connection to the Golden Company, but Stannis knew aught else of them. “I am only a sellsword’s get.”

“Hmm,” Aemon said, “keep it as such. Lord Stannis would not suffer a Targaryen princeling in his midst. Were I young enough to push _my_ claim, why, my head would decorate a spear most nicely I fear.” He laughed, but sobered quickly. “...Despite his priestess’s claims, his sword is no true Lightbringer, no matter what the man crow as they sup. The sword has no heat, only light; an illusion, and nothing more.”

That, Aegon was somewhat startled to hear. He knew Stannis was no man of prophecy, but his blade had impressed him regardless. It shone brilliantly when unsheathed; they all had seen it when he first passed through the gate. Legends oft grew in the telling, so Aegon had not decried the sword’s lack of fire. “Lightbringer or no, I would not turn away such a blade.”

Aemon was silent then, and for a moment, all Aegon could hear was the crackling of the fire.

“No man should aspire to Azor Ahai’s mantle,” The old man said at last. “None should seek Lightbringer, or chase its trail. Let legends lie, and prophecies fade.” A drawn out breath, and blind eyes staring. “No good comes of them, Egg.”

* * *

 

Suppers had become a considerably more raucous affair since Stannis’s arrival. Yes, the man of each camp _tended_ to stick to their own, but there were always those brave or companionable souls that sought new company. Aegon had always been such a man, to Jon’s everlasting consternation.

King’s Men, Queen’s Men, Eastwatch men, Castle Black men, and even Shadow Tower men (though few, in that last case). The men of the Night’s Watch mingled freely, while Stannis’s men had at first been rather bashful. Still, as the days passed, it was becoming increasingly common to see men bearing R’hllor’s burning heart surrounded by men in black.

Jon though… Jon had been most paranoid since his audience with Stannis, and for once, Aegon could not begrudge him his caution. Stannis desired the Golden Company, and they were his means of getting it. They were all but wanted men, now, though it didn’t quite feel like it to him.

As a result, he had mingled less than was his desire, and what few times he did, he was sure to have Duck at his side or back.

Tonight, he supped only with his “merry band of brothers”, as Haldon had sometimes called them. Lemore wore the whites of her office, though covered in furs as she was, it was difficult to figure that she was a septa at all unless one knew her already. Haldon finally had energy and will enough to dine with the rest of them, and he sat serenely to Lemore’s side, though it was clear that his face had thinned since the last time he had been seen in the common hall. Duck was Duck, and he managed to make his ever-scanning eyes seem lazy rather than watchful.

Jon… Jon was gone, at the moment. Aegon saw neither head nor tail of his father, nor of the wolfskin cloak that he had worn since Essos.

Nearest them was a shabby group of King’s Men, with a handful of black brothers some space away. Aegon could not spy sigils on them, but they did not quite have the look of free riders to them. It was fortunate that it was all too easy to differentiate a Queen’s from a King’s man, one must only look for the burning heart.

_Seems strange that they call themselves King’s Men, when their king cares little for the Seven._

Lord Stannis was not so vocal as his red priestess at their nightfires, but he had been present near every night, his choice in the theological war at play among his followers seeming more than clear to Aegon.

Aegon shoveled a spoonful of mammoth and turnip stew into his mouth messily, as Duck might. He knew his manners, but it was important that he play his part well, he knew. The mammoth meat was stringy, and rather tough as well, somehow, but it was meat, and for that Aegon was thankful.

And then suddenly, a new body, bowl in hand, all but collapsed into the seat opposite Duck.

It was a face he had seen frequently about the yard; a fair, if fleshy, face, with neatly brushed flaxen hair and an easygoing smile. A talker, by his mannerisms. He bore the burning heart of R’hllor, with Stannis’s stag in its middle, at his chest, clasping together his fur-lined cloak.

Duck was on guard instantly, Aegon knew, but he was a better mummer than Haldon and Jon gave him his dues for, and the man seemed to register none of that.

“Sers,” the man said in greeting, “my lady,” he said to Lemore with an _especially_ dashing smile. “I fear I have not yet had the pleasure of your acquantiance…?” He trailed off, his question obvious.

Duck took charge, making certain to name himself a knight, and Aegon his lowly squire. Haldon and Lemore introduced themselves, with differing degrees of congeniality.

“Ser Justin Massey,” the man said afterward, “of Stonedance, though I fear I am no longer quite so welcome there.” He laughed gaily. “Might I sit?”

“Of course, good Ser,” Duck replied, not noting that he was already sitting.

Ser Justin nodded appreciably, and eyed each of them in succession. “Have you heard the tale?” he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow that might have beguiled a tavern girl.

“Which tale?” Haldon asked. “The Florent burning, or another one?”

They had all heard _that_ tale in short order. Every man of Stannis’s number whispered (or gloated) of the Red God’s gale, and the great speed with which it had carried them to Eastwatch.

The blond man’s smile became strained. “Another,” he said. “Of the false king, Joffrey the Illborn, and his yet more ignoble end.”

Aegon smirked at that. "Only what we have been told by your fellow stag men.”

Lemore made a face, pretending at pity for the “poor boy” who died at his own wedding. But even she had not mourned him when she heard tell of the likely bastard's untimely death.

Ser Justin swallowed a spoonful of the stew, frowning and shaking his head once he’d forced it down. “Ghastly stuff,” he said. “But that wedding was more ghastly still.” He chuckled. “Did you know that some are calling it the Purple Wedding?”

He hadn’t. He’d heard much and more of the slaughter at the so-called Red Wedding, but he’d not heard this.

“Why purple?” Duck asked.

“Why, it’s the color his face turned, when he choked to death of course.” His smile was sardonic, then. “They say that he clawed out his own throat, turned it to ribbons to relieve the pressure, or so I’ve been told. Didn’t work.”

Haldon scratched at his stubbly chin. He had not been as studious in his clean-shavednness since his injury, and a coarse stubbled decorated his ascetic face. “The Strangler, I’d wager.”

That drew the affable knight’s attention. “The Strangler? It was poison then?”

Haldon half grunted and half chuckled. “If your compatriots tell it true, the ever-venerable Cersei Lannister blamed her brother, the Imp, for the boy king’s death. And while I doubt the veracity of his involvement, the fact that it was poison seems all too evident.” He waved a hand. “The Strangler imitates choking, you see. Administered properly, with the correct sorts of food, and it is likely most would never know the difference from true suffocation and the Strangler.”

“A terrible way to die,” said Lemore then, “truly. May the mother–”

There was a commotion at the front of the hall; Slynt was waddling up to the front of the common hall, flanked by the grim, grey-faced Ser Allister Thorne, the ever-red Bowen Marsh, and stony Othyll Yarwyck. Slynt smiled widely, appearing every inch the toad, even more than Pyp’s friend Toad himself. His blacks were of higher, finer quality than any of the others’ save for certain elements of Thorne’s ensemble, such as the knight’s sable cloak.

“Friends!” The fat man called above the commotion, as the soldiers and brothers alike gradually quieted. “Allies!” The last rumblings of conversation died out. “Brave brothers, who defended the Wall against Wildling hordes and the oathbreaker Mance Rayder!” He swept a stubby-fingered hand across to where most of Stannis’s men sat. “ Knights and men-at-arms, and our dear King Stannis, who scouts the Wall even now, who came to us in our time of need. I do declare a toast, for all who shed sweat, and blood, or their very lives in defense of our Wall and the Seven Kingdoms behind it!”

A cheer went up. Some men stomped their feet, or pounded their cups on the old wooden tables. Others merely shouted nonsensically. Aegon heard a man on the far side of the hall shout, “One God, One Realm, One King!” Others merely hollered incoherently.

Still, despite his myriad reservations, Aegon took a gulp of wine with the rest of the men. He owed those who had died that much, at the least.

Marsh stepped forward after most had swilled their wine or ale. “And on Lord Janos’s insistence, more wine for all tonight!”

A second, much rowdier and more appreciative cheer roared through the common hall, shaking even the rafters. “To Janos!” Someone yelled out, and many more followed. “Janos!” “Janos Lord Commander!” “Slynt.”

Aegon did not miss Ser Justin’s frown, or how he drummed his fingers against the cracked old benches. He saw that most of Stannis’s men bore similar expressions.

“He’s bought them off then,” Haldon said. “It was coming soon or late.”

Ser Justin leaned back in his seat, and pushed his bowl of stew away. “I’d not thought he would be so brazen.” He shook his head. “But the man was known well for his bribes, even outside of King’s Landing. Small wonder he would do the same here.”

And Aegon knew what he had bribed them with. _Tywin Lannister._

When Ser Justin said his goodbyes, and left the hall (surely, to alert the King or the red priestess), Aegon turned to his companions.

“Tywin Lannister has pledged support to the Watch should that… that– _scoundrel_ become Lord Commander,” he all but spat. “And with the Lord Steward and First Builder behind him, he will be.”

Septa Lemore hushed him. “He does not know us,” she said. “If Tywin Lannister would spend his strength, or his gold, here let him.”

Aegon shook his head, and crossed his arms. “I do not like it,” he said with a growl. “Would that I had some of the Strangler here now; I would know where to put it.”

Duck cuffed him on his shoulder. “Quiet, squire,” he said in reprimand. “That’s not very knightly behavior of you, boy. Say such again and you’ll get a clout in the ear.”

Aegon almost laughed at that, but still, his mood simmered low, and he saw the anxiety plain on Duck and Lemore and Haldon’s faces as well.

He watched as the Sworn Brothers of the Night’s Watch drank the wine that Lord Marsh had provided them. He watched as Three Finger Hobb and his cooks brought the first desserts any of them had seen in weeks or months. He watched Ser Alliser Thorne and Janos Slynt share a full, belly laugh.

He thought of Elia and Rhaenys, and he wanted to be sick.  

* * *

 

**_Haldon_ **

“On the morrow, then” Duck called from a distance.

The biting night winds whipped at Haldon’s face, and he felt himself frown. “What are you doing?” Haldon asked.

Duck shrugged his brawny shoulders languidly. “Taking a watch at the top,” he replied with an exaggerated point at the Wall. In the dark, the Wall could appear almost black, at times. A great hulking shadow that loomed in their vision wheresoever they might go at Castle Black.

“Why?”

Another shrug. “Habit, I suppose.” Then. “Make certain Griff knows, we both know how he gets.” Ser Rolly was then off with a laugh and a wave.

“Mind the winds!” Haldon called. The winds had become harsh, and at the top, they were only harsher. _This Duck can’t fly, I’d wager._

Haldon continued to the squat building that housed both Maester Aemon and Clydas (and Samwell Tarly too, now that he had returned). He had thought to rejoin Griff and Duck and the rest after he was adequately recovered from his wound, but Maester Aemon had insisted that he stay in his so-called “temporary” quarters. Their party’s new quarters were not quite so comfortable as their previous ones in the King’s Tower, for they had been moved to considerably dingier chambers after Stannis Baratheon smashed Mance Rayder beneath the Wall. Haldon would not miss resting in their new chambers, then.

Throughout his recovery, he had found himself longing for Duck’s japes, Lemore’s feigned insinuations, and even Griff’s (increasingly common) rages. The lad he missed most of all, as he laid abed. They had all visited him, frequently even, but it was not the same as when they had all kept to neighboring rooms in stray Essosi taverns, or aboard _The Shy Maid._

But he would not throw the aged Targaryen’s offer back into his deeply lined face, no matter how much he missed his companions. It was not every man that received his own room at Castle Black, and besides, he had more than an inkling that Aegon was the force behind it all.

A particularly chilling gust whipped past him, and he felt a twinge in his side. He stopped, clutching where he knew the wound to be; he wore some meager bandages still, though it had mostly ceased its leaking. Haldon hissed lightly. When the pain dulled, he continued his trek across the dark yards of Castle Black.

Every day, he sent up a stray prayer to the Mother for her mercy. Had that spear gone up a tad more, or angled more to the right… He’d have lost a lung, or perhaps even his very heart. He’d have been dead in moments, or minutes perhaps.

There was pain, still, and he would most likely never sit comfortably ahorse again (out of anxiety over his wounding, or the wound itself, he could not truly say) but he was thankful nonetheless. Better men had taken lesser wounds, and died for it.

Donal Noye’s forge was alight, even now; the harsh clanging of his hammer echoed more often than ever, it seemed. Aegon had left the common hall in a rush with Noye’s name on his lips, and Haldon was almost certain he knew the lad’s cause.

_If Noye wanted it, he’d have made his bid by now._

Noye was well liked by most, if Aegon and Duck told it true. The two of them had spent more time than any of them (excepting Lemore perhaps, due to her work in the sept) with the black brothers of the Night’s Watch, and so knew their attitudes better than he or Griff ever could. He might have been Lord Commander already, if he desired it. But the man had taken the Night’s Watch vow willingly; like as not, the one-armed blacksmith had wanted to live out the rest of his days honorably, with little distinction.

Haldon saw the appeal, truthfully.

The interior of Maester Aemon’s quarters was a welcome respite from the biting cold of the yard. Every fire that could be burning in the building, was. Tallow candles glowed bright in every corner, and the hearth was roaring high. For a moment, he heard only the fire and his own footsteps, but soon, he heard the shufflings of who could only have been Clydas a room away.

Maester Aemon retired early, and woke even earlier most days, so he was doubtlessly asleep already.

A door creaked open, catching his attention. A fat, dark eyed face peered out, thick fingers like sausages clutching tightly at the edge of the door.

“Oh..” said Samwell Tarly, “It’s you.”

Haldon offered him a nod. “It is.” He paused. “...Is Maester Aemon well?”

A frown split Tarly’s plump face. “He–Maester Aemon, I mean… he has not been as... bright as normal, I fear.”

 _You fear everything, craven,_ Haldon wanted to say, but he held his tongue. For all that this boy seemed, he was the first man in what might be eight thousand years to slay an Other. It felt… absurd to Haldon, looking at him, but others had seen the act, and Aegon trusted in those who had. Instead, Haldon said simply, “Ah. Send him my prayers, Tarly.”

The fat lordling bobbed his head, retreating as quickly as he appeared.

Haldon continued, moving quickly through the room and into the quarters that had been offered to him by the kindly maester. Clydas, or Sam, in fact, had kept his hearth up as well, for which Haldon was thankful. He unclasped his cloak and set it atop one of his many chests.

Aegon and Duck both had transferred his many chests from his previous room to this one, after it became clear that he would be spending much of his time abed. Neither of the two had been so... _fortunate_ as to ever take an injury as potentially mortal as he had, but still, they knew the rancors of boredom as well as any man. It had taken most of the daylight hours to haul each of the chests across the grounds of Castle Black.

Duck had japed, _“You’re only half a maester, why not take only half the chests?”_ Which had earned him a harsh reprimand from the lad.

His many chests contained all manners of goods. Medicines, tomes aplenty, sheafs of hastily transcribed High Valyrian poetry, and more. Anything and everything a healer and teacher might need. Griff had made it all too clear that he must be prepared for any and every grim occurrence that might befall them. As it happened, Griff had a wondrous imagination when it pertained to risks and dangers and nightmarish scenarios of his own making.

Griff…

It stung, somewhat, to know that that Griff would have seen them leave him behind, to the mercies of Mance Rayder and his terrible horde; it did not sting quite so acutely now, though. If Haldon could have known that they would be trapped between the Wall and Stannis Baratheon in short order, he’d have shooed Aegon out himself. 

Still, what was done, was done. He could not change the past.

That had been driven into him fairly quickly, during his limited studies into the magical arts at the Citadel.

Haldon scratched at his stubbly chin, unused to the feeling of it. For as long as he’d been _able_ to grow his beard, he’d driven it away. Well, excepting that first time. He had learned even more quickly that he would never grow a mighty mess of hair on his face.

His eyes fell to his many chests.

 _Which one is it_? He had intentionally kept his containers nondescript, so as to avert suspicious gazes, but sometimes that decision made it difficult to remember where he had stored what. _Especially after a brute and his squire disrupt the order of things._

He unclasped the nearest, drew it open, and then gazed into its contents. Tomes on tomes. Inks. Parchments. Anything and everything he might need to teach a princeling to read or write.

Closing it, he pushed it aside and made for the next. More tomes. Geometry, and sums being the primary focuses. His well-worn Cyvasse board sat in this one as well, along with some few maester-ly implements.

The next stored clothes, primarily. His clothes, the lad’s, even a few that could only be Lemore’s. _Duck brought it by mistake, surely._

In the fourth, he found what he sought.

Medicines, powders, materials for poultices, cloth for bandages, and beneath it all, vials of sweetsleep and dreamwine; it was everything half a maester should need, and more than enough to make him the envy of many a village healer. Griff had made _certain_ that Haldon would have the cure for every ill that might befall their charge.

_A dead dragon would hinder the cause, no matter its righteousness._

The grimness of the thought almost made him chuckle.

It was not their dragon prince that ailed, though, but something rather different. Aegon had realized it quickly enough, and surely Maester Aemon knew it too. Tarly as well, if he was so sharp as his many friends (and many more enemies) claimed.

The great bulk of the Night’s Watch were brutes. Rapers. Murderers. Thieves. If they had been smart, they would have never been caught and sentenced, he supposed, so he could not blame them, truly. But still, Haldon Halfmaester knew a sickness when he saw one.

Griff had taken great care to ensure that Haldon possessed every medicine he might need, but his few years in the Golden Company had taught the Halfmaester much about warfare, perhaps more even than his years in the Citadel had. It had taught him that healing might not always be so simple as it seemed. Magister Illyrio had agreed, and sent for some last… rarer medicines.

Beneath it all, hidden in a secret, lower compartment, were his most prized potions and powders.

Haldon’s fingers brushed each vial in turn, feeling the cool glass on his fingertips. Illyrio had furnished him well, but he had never needed to use one. They had sat unused, unloved for many years. He drew out the one he desired, and held it aloft, letting it catch the light of the hearth.

What could only be described as blood pooled at the bottom of the vial. He shook it, smoothing out its consistency some, and smiled.

A sickness was taking root in the Night’s Watch, and it wanted for bleeding.

* * *

**_Jon_ **

Jon had not bothered to go to the common hall that morning. He knew full well what the counts would result in; it would have taken a man more blind than Maester Aemon not to see it. He had asked Pyp to cast his own vote for Ser Denys Mallister, though he knew it would make little difference. So instead, Jon drew up a bath.

And brooded.

 _“I don’t want it,”_ Noye had said. _“I never have. Were it in my power, the Old Bear would be here still.”_

 _“Better you than Slynt,”_ Jon had retorted.

Noye had laughed then. _“Stannis thinks much the same, but I am no leader of men. I’m a blacksmith, and nothing more. Whatever else Janos Slynt is, he is a commander, and if the Watch wants him, the Watch shall have him.”_

They were his brothers, each and every one of them. Even Thorne, for better or worse. The Watch had always chosen its leaders, and not every choice had been a wise one; the histories said that much at the very least.

Jon sank deeper into the pool of warm water, feeling its heat against his chin. He shivered.

In the commons, he’d heard an Eastwatch man with a bushy brown beard complain of Slynt’s growing popularity.

_“You’ve all heard what King Stannis and his men have said. The man is a scoundrel, why should he sit where Mormont once sat?”_

One-Nose Wayne (so named for his nose having been cut in two by a Wildling’s dagger) had spoken up then. _“Why shouldn’t he? Our crimes are wiped clean, our slate polished to a pretty shine when we say our words! Lord Slynt led the Goldcloaks for_ years _, and a man does not rise so high by chance and villainy alone.”_

Another, Tommas of Maidenpool, had continued it. _“That’s if what_ Lord _Stannis says is even true. It might all be slander for all we can know. He wants us as his leal vassals, every one of us can see that, plain as piss.”_

Jon let out a ragged breath.

It all came back to Stannis, it seemed. Stannis and his word.

_“You need only bend your knee, lay your sword at my feet, and pledge yourself to my service, and you shall rise again as Jon Stark, the Lord of Winterfell.”_

He wanted it, didn’t he?

He’d always wanted it. He wanted to be lord. He wanted Ice. He wanted to sit the throne of the old Kings of Winter, the throne that he had seen his father sit a thousand times. He wanted to rule wisely and justly, as father always had. Winterfell was his home. The North was his home. It always had been.

But it was Robb’s, not his. And if not Robb’s then Bran’s. Then baby Rickon’s. Then Sansa. And finally, Arya Underfoot. He was a bastard, and each of them trueborn. And now they were _gone_ , each and every one of them dead or disappeared.

Robb, slain at the Twins by traitors.

Bran and Rickon both murdered by a turncloak, a man that they both had thought of as something close to blood.

Sansa was gone, and Lady Lannister besides (as Stannis had said pointedly).

And Arya… Arya could only be dead as well.

Jon was the last.

He was the last wolf of Lord Eddard Stark’s brood. The last that might set things to rights. That could return Winterfell to its former glory, could avenge the deaths of his siblings and his father.

But… he had said the words. He had said them before his father’s gods, the gods of the North. He had vowed to hold no titles and take no wife. To father no children. He had solemnly sworn to be the shield that guards the realms of men, from that day until his last.

He almost laughed.

_What day will be my last, I wonder?_

Would it be tomorrow? When Lord Commander Slynt decided that the Watch would not suffer a _warg_ to live, whether or not Ghost was at his side?

Perhaps in a month? A tumble off the Wall could look entirely accidental on a windy night.

Maybe Slynt would have a change of heart, and decide to reach out to the Free Folk after all. Jon would be sent (for he knew them best, after all), with a gaggle of Slynt’s best men at his side, he didn’t doubt. Any one of which would take fine care to ensure that Jon had a fair night’s sleep.

And all that, because he had said some words.

Because he had said _the_ words.

Words are wind, many men said, but Jon knew otherwise. A man _was_ his word.

 _“A vow sworn to a tree has no more power than one sworn to your shoes,”_ the red witch had said. A strange look had passed over her glittering red eyes then, a strangled look, an unsure one. _“R’hllor is the only true god, Jon Snow. He offers you this chance. He offers you Winterfell.”_

But Jon had heard all the stories. He knew this red god’s price; the Seven had been burned on Dragonstone, and the Godswood turned to kindling at Storm’s End. _“Then what of my father’s gods? The Old Gods? Would you have them razed, as you have elsewhere?”_

A fire had come to her eyes, a passionate blaze that shone like the sun for half a heartbeat. Then, it was gone, and it was Stannis who was speaking.

 _“Keep what gods you will, Snow, I need only your loyalty.”_ Something grim twisted the dour man’s lips, but Jon hadn’t known if it was a smile or a grimace. _“Your father and my brother bled together, and their gods were not the same. Sword and service is all I demand, and Winterfell will be yours.”_

Sword and service.

Once, he thought to swear himself to Robb; perhaps even to Bran, if he received the keep father had thought to bestow him. He’d have made a capable castellan, or a captain of the guard, and both were respectable positions for a bastard, he knew.

But he’d wanted to rise, and rise high.

 _How much higher might a man go? Lord Paramount and Warden of the North is a worthy station._ It was far beyond anything he had dreamed of since his childhood.

He might be the Young Dragon come again, though he would be retaking his home, and not Dorne.

Jon shivered again.

The water was growing lukewarm quickly.

He tried to vacate his thoughts for a time, merely letting the ever-cooler water soothe his muscles and his bones. His leg still had some healing to do, though he did not require his crutches as much as he had before. It would be some weeks before he could walk and run as he had before, though, Aemon said.

The sound of step against stone caught his ears suddenly, and he looked up, drawing himself out of the water some.

“Ho there!” Called a voice he knew at once, the slight hint of accent being incredibly noticeable to Jon’s ear.

Jon shifted. “Griff,” he replied, forcing something approaching good cheer into his tone. “Fancy a bath? I’m afraid my water has lost its warmth.”

The tall, lithe form of the Young Griff approached him, and again, Jon was struck by the Essosi’s look. He was dark, darker than most in Westeros but the Dornish, and his blue hair was garish to most anyone, but still, he was handsome. He’d have put Theon Greyjoy to shame, if they ever had gone wenching together. His eyes alone would have seen most any girl in all of Winterfell or Winter Town fall into his lap.

A ghost of a smile danced across Griff’s face, but it became hard all too quickly. “Ah, no,” he said. “Pyp wanted to tell you himself, but he had duties to see to.” He looked away, and Jon saw the Essosi’s pretty jaw clench. “Slynt is Lord Commander,” he said at last. “With the endorsements by Yarwyck and Marsh–”

“–and Hobb,” Jon added.

“–yes, and Hobb.” Griff threw a hand out aimlessly. “There was no other way it might have gone.”

Jon couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him then, and the look that the blue haired boy shot him only deepened his laugh.

“What is it, Snow?” Griff asked, affronted.

Jon waved a hand. “I’m not certain,” he replied as he calmed, “Joy that this farce is over, perhaps?” Jon shrugged, and pulled himself out of the bath.

Most men tended to avert their eyes, if only slightly, but Griff did not. _Famed Essosi looseness, I presume_.

“Slynt begrudges you your very existence, Snow,” Griff said, almost accusatory. “He spat lies and slander into any man’s ear that might give him the time to spit it. A traitor’s bastard, he said. A warg. A wildling in black. Turncloak.” A strained look passed his eyes. “You’re in danger, Jon.”

Jon shrugged again. “We all are, with the Others at the gates. If I die now or then, what does it matter?”

“Boil has told me of Mance Rayder,” Griff said, after a long quiet. “He’s told me a hundred stories, a thousand, maybe. Battling this magnar, or earning the trust of that chief; joining the giants and men under the very same banner.” Another pause. “It is as you said, I believe. He’s a good man. An oathbreaker, yes, but a good man.” He looked pointedly at Jon. “Better to run, I say,” Griff whispered, drawing closer. “You’re no good in the war that’s coming if you’re dead.”

Jon considered it.

“Might I ask you a question, Griff?”

The boy pulled away again. “You may.”

Jon looked into the boy’s dark violet eyes. “If you had the opportunity to take vengeance for your mother and sister, would you?”

Griff’s answer was immediate. “I would.”  His purple eyes were like amethysts, and his jaw was clenched. Jon saw no lies in his gaze.

 _‘And if you had to break your word to do it?’_ He wanted to ask, but he didn’t. He didn’t need to, really, because he had his answer.

He’d always had it, after a fashion.

“Fetch me a cloth, will you?” He asked, belatedly realizing that he was still stark naked. “And tell the others I may miss supper.”

* * *

 

There were more men in the King’s Tower than he had ever seen. Every level of the old tower seemed to have king’s men and queen’s men pouring out of it, like so many maggots in a carcass. The King’s Tower had not seen a king in many years, he knew, and Stannis kept his men well occupied. It was warm, besides, and it sheltered them from the winds.

Men all throughout the tower eyed him. Many with suspicion, some few with dull wonder. Talk traveled in Castle Black, and he didn’t doubt that near every man in the tower knew of him and his purported abilities. A _warg_ most said, some others might call him a skinchanger. Perhaps a few others would call him a beast in human flesh. But they all knew that he had spoken to the king some days previous. They knew he was of some importance.

He doubted they knew the truth, of course.

The guards outside the king’s solar eyed him harder than the rest. Both wore full plate and mail, sans helms, polished to something that might charitably be called a shine, and held swords rather than spears. The hall was neither tall nor wide enough to allow for efficient use of a polearm, so it was the smart decision, to Jon.

Jon inclined his head to the both of them, noting that both wore yellow and red livery marked with the burning heart, rather than the original Baratheon sigil. “Might I speak with His Grace?”

One frowned, and the other glared at him with suspicious brown eyes.

“We’ll have your swordbelt then,” the other, the fair-haired one, commanded.

Shaking his head, Jon patted at Longclaw’s pommel. “I should think not. His Grace has need of it.”

The brown-eyed one’s frown deepened, and he shared a look of naked suspicion with his companion.

“Devan!” the fair-haired guard called.

Jon heard movement from behind the door, and when it opened, he saw a brown haired and brown eyed boy on the other end. Common, by the look of him. After a hushed and hurried whisper, the door closed again.

There was more movement behind the door, and more glares from the men guarding it. Then, there was a barked command that he could hear only dimly. The door opened again, and the boy who could only be Devan bobbed his head in Jon’s direction.

“His Grace will see you,” he said, almost more to the guards than to Jon.

Jon entered the room, sword in hand, and felt the blessed warmth of the fire within.

King Stannis’s fabled sword hung from a peg to the side of the roaring hearth, and a map stretched across the desk that Jon had once delivered Mormont’s breakfast to. A tallow candle, a gauntlet, and an inkwell sat atop three of the map’s four corners, so as to keep it from curling back up.

The king stood, tall and imperious before the map.

The king’s squire scurried out of the room without a word, and the door slammed behind him resoundingly.

“I pray you are not here to kill me, Lord Snow,” the king said. The blue pits that some called eyes bored into his own, and his mouth was set firm. Jon might have taken it for a jape, if the man were not so grim. Dressed in simple brown garb, Stannis Baratheon would not have seemed a king at all, had he not been wearing his crown; the golden points forged like fire glowed like it in the light of the blaze, and the ruby at the crown’s fore glittered most of all.

Jon did not laugh, and he did not smile. He made his face ice. He made it like father’s had always been, when he held court or when he settled disputes. He hardened, as father always had, when he had to take a life.

“Your Grace,” Jon said, kneeling deep and low. He unsheathed Longclaw, the grey of the Valyrian steel catching the light as it slid from the scabbard. Ghost’s garnet eyes stared out at him from the hilt of the sword as he laid it down at Stannis’s feet. “My sword is yours,” he said, breathing deeply. “I will hold the North in your name, uphold your laws, and visit your justice upon those who would see your laws besmirched. From this day until my last, I am your leal servant.” He looked up, and saw blue eyes staring down at him. The red ruby of the king’s crown glittered still. “In the light of your god, and in the hearing of my own, I do swear it.”

The king’s jaw unclenched, and something washed over his face then. Something Jon could not put a name to.

Stannis Baratheon offered him a hand. “Then rise again as Jon Stark,” he intoned. “Rise as the Lord of Winterfell, and the Warden of the North.”

Lord Jon Stark accepted the king’s hand, and rose to his feet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Also I don't think many people on this site called this development ;P

**Author's Note:**

> First story on AO3, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


End file.
